


Brace Yourself

by skyline



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M, Stan is Raven, and emoing all over everything, and sad, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-02
Updated: 2010-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-02 05:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 70,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5235119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just to prove my point, I put my fingertip right under the fold of his second chin, smirk and say, "Yeah. That's right fatass. My name is Raven."</p><p>Then I punch him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't Believe Everything You Breathe

High school. It's like the seventh circle of hell, only all the violent offenders are pint sized and often wearing miniskirts.

I remember the day I first walked into the brand spanking new establishment that was Park County High School. The old one was ripped down by a freak tornado caused by…well, it's a long story. Let's just say it wasn't completely my fault, and that if Kenny died that day, he sort of deserved it.

It's not like the bastard didn't come back to life afterwards anyway.

So, that very first day of high school should have been an exciting moment for me, right? Fourteen, ready to face the world and all the upperclassmen. Ready to show everyone what Stanley Randall Marsh could do.

That's not exactly how it happened.

The summer before freshman year…the summer the new school with all its shiny lockers and brightly patterned tiled floors was being built…that was the summer I lost my best friend.

It was kind of my own fault.

We fought over the stupidest thing in the world. We fought over me.

In eighth grade, I was dating this girl. You've probably heard of her. Wendy Testaburger. She's the smartest girl in all of Park County.

She's not just book smart, but street smart. She's got connections all over the world from the various academic conferences she visits. And she's got this way about her. Guys love it. Wendy's the kind of girl who's equally at home in earth mother peasant blouses and cleavage bearing shirts. She can pull off metallic eye shadow like those girls in posters at the mall, or she can go without makeup. She can hold an intelligent conversation, but she can also act like a total vacant whore.

I hate her.

I dated Wendy on and off from third grade until eighth. My friends called me a total chump. They said Wendy was using me. I was the star of elementary school football league. I was devastatingly handsome, according to my mother. Wendy's best friend Bebe had been known to call me a hunk of gorgeous man candy. I don't know which description I preferred. Neither, I think, but the point is, I had a lot of potential.

All my friends said that Wendy was using me for it, but that she didn't love me. That's why she was always so hot and cold.

Anyway, my best friend in the whole world confronted me about it, about a week after the freak tornado incident.

"Stan, why do you let her do this to you?"

 _This_ was Wendy breaking up with me. For the fifteenth time in my life.

I was upset. I may have been mister big man on campus, but I guess I was always a bit of a pussy too.

"I don't know, Kyle. If you had a girlfriend, you'd probably know how it feels."

"Maybe," Kyle bit his lip doubtfully. He didn't buy my bullcrap for a second. There was a reason why he was my best friend.

"Let's talk about something different," I suggested.

"You always want to change the subject," he complained, "I think we should really just talk about this."

"I don't want to have a conversation about Wendy, dude."

"Okay. Not Wendy," he straightened up off my couch, where he'd been munching on my stash of cookies. His mother was pretty much a health food freak, so my house was kind of like his one stop shop for all things sugary, "How about we talk about football?"

God no. We'd had this talk millions of times too.

Warningly, I'd said, "Kyle."

"No, Stan. You let Wendy push you around, and ask me to leave it be. You hate football, but you're on the team anyway. You want me to leave that be too. What about the fact that too scared to talk to your parents about anything? When are you going to stop being such a pushover?"

"The only thing I don't talk to my parents about is football," I replied pointedly.

"That's a lie, Stan. I asked you about five times whether or not you could come to Florida this summer. My parents have that big huge beach house, and so far the only person who can make it is Cartman. You're going to leave me to rot in the sun for a month with that fat fuck?"

"Kenny might come," I tried.

"Kenny can't afford the plane ticket," Kyle rolled his eyes, "Which was pretty much my parents' only stipulation about you guys coming."

"I want to go."

"So ask your mom and dad!"

I frowned. It wasn't that simple, and Kyle knew it. Because…I had to go to football camp. I was supposed to start on the JV squad at Park County High School in the fall. I kept my mouth shut. No matter what I said, it wouldn't be what Kyle wanted to hear.

It was true. I hated football. I only did it because my dad was so invested in it. And yeah, Wendy was a domineering, oft-times cheating ho. But…it was better having a girlfriend than not having one, right? That's what I thought at the time.

"I'll try, dude."

"No, you won't."

He was right. I wasn't going to try. I already knew my dad's answer.

"Okay. I won't," I shrugged, "It's not that big a deal."

"It is a big deal, Stan. You won't even ask, you won't even try. It's like you don't even care about me!"

"You sound like such a fag."

"Great, so now I'm a fag for wanting to spend time with my best friend. You are such an asshole."

"I'm an asshole? At least I'm not acting like a whiny little bitch for no reason."

"You always act like a whiny little bitch for no reason," he pointed out, cheeks heated.

"Aw, fuck you, Kyle."

"Well fuck you too."

He got up. He left.

It shouldn't have been enough to end a friendship.

We both needed some time to calm down, sure. He headed off to the timeshare beach house in Florida, with only Cartman to keep him company. I went to football camp, which was like torture. He called me once or twice, I think, but I was so busy trying to toss around pigskin that I didn't have the time to return any of his calls. I figured he'd get over it.

A month before school was about to start, I ran over to Kyle's house. His family was getting back that day. I watched him and Cartman climb out of his mom's car. I watched them smiling, laughing. Things I'd never seen them do in each other's proximity. And okay, I was jealous.

Really jealous.

I tried to go up and talk to them, but they kept talking in what sounded like code. Apparently it was part of their many new inside jokes. Not a single insult of 'jewfag' was dropped.

Cue even more jealousy.

I guess after that, I sort of dicked out. Every time I went to hang out with Kyle, I ended up hanging out with Cartman by proxy. I felt left out. I felt…I don't know. Miserable. So while Kyle kept calling, I stopped picking up.

My fault, to be sure.

I ended up wearing more black. It fit my mood, I guess. I went to this coffee house on the edge of town. I started listening to poetry readings and acoustic guitar. I didn't start wearing eyeliner or talking about razor blades, but try telling Kyle that. He caught me wearing this old shirt I had when I went through my Goth phase in fourth grade.

"What the fuck is this Stan? What's happening to you?"

I tried to tell him that it was the only clean shirt I could find on the mess-that-was-my-floor. He didn't believe me. The bastard didn't believe me. What the fuck?

"If you're going to go be that mopey ass Raven again, maybe you should find a new best friend."

I couldn't believe he'd said it. I mean, we hadn't been quite right since the fight or his new found friendship with the fatass, but to threaten to end our friendship?

Righteously - it felt righteous - I got pissed.

Now, looking back on it, I think he was looking out for me. I think I overreacted, because I was sensitive about the fact that I felt like a third wheel, and that I missed Wendy. But at the time, all I could think was that he was a total dickhead. If he didn't want to be my friend, fuck him.

I told one of my new friends at the coffeehouse about our fight, and he said, "Raven, man. That's a sweet name."

So somehow, I lost my identity as Stan Marsh. I became a faggy little Goth again, but without the Goth part. I became this kid known as Raven. I wore even more black.

I got my lip pierced, but that was a short phase. Now I have this tiny little scar where the piercing used to be. I run my lip over that now. I'm supposed to be talking about the first day of high school, right?

Here it is. I walked in with my new friends, wearing all black. Wendy walked up to me, and said, "I was going to try to get back together with a freak like you? What the fuck was I on?"

If I go by the name Raven, and I wear my oh-so-ironic Nevermore tee shirt, I guess that makes me a _freak_.

Well, that's what she said, anyway. Fuck her. She's a conformist bitch.

That's what I should have thought. Really it just hurt that the girl I spent the better part of my life in love with turned out to be some…hussy.

The rest of my day kind of went like that. Old friends turned their back on me. Everybody decided that I was some kind of outcast. I got kicked off the football team for getting in a fight two weeks into the marking period. My parents ended up disappointed in me.

Yeah, school really sucked back then.

The worst part was, I hadn't even done much to deserve it, except for getting in a fight with the only person who would have defended me.

Kyle. He's like the golden boy of Park County High.

Okay, so he's not exactly valedictorian material any longer, which I'm sure eternally plagues his mother. But he's got…charisma. He dresses in tight converses, ripped jeans, and band t-shirts. He has his eyebrow pierced. He cut his curly red hair super short. He's got a gorgeous girlfriend. _Cartman_ is his best friend.

It's the beginning of senior year, and he's got what everyone thought I would have. And the funny thing is, I don't hate him for it. We're not mortal enemies, or anything. We're just two people who drifted apart.

The only problem being, I want him back.

And I'll do anything to get him.

"Stan, have you finished your essay?" my teacher snaps, and I glance down at the notebook page full of illegible scrawl before me. I've been daydreaming.

Busted.

"Miss Teacher!" Cartman yells from the back of the class, and I inwardly groan. He seems to think it's his life's work to fuck me over now that he's barred from making as many Jew jokes as he used to. It helps that he's on the hockey team and thinks that he's the hottest shit since sliced bread.

"Yes, Eric?"

Cartman sneers in my general direction, "He doesn't answer to Stan, Miss Teacher. He likes to be called Raven."

I turn towards him, my grin slow. I stand up from my chair, despite the teacher yelling at me to sit my ass back down. I walk towards him, my gaze so hot that it's smoldering. Cartman's shifting uncomfortably now, muttering the word 'fag' under his breath. Whatever. Like I could care less what this best-friend-stealing-lardass has to say.

Just to prove my point, I put my fingertip right under the fold of his second chin, smirk and say, "Yeah. That's right fatass. My name is Raven."

Then I punch him.

It's the first day of senior year, and I end up in detention.


	2. Everybody's Looking For Something

I got detention for beating the fatass into a bloody pulp, but I'm thinking it was worth it.

Maybe it's because growing up, he barely ever fucked with me. Now that Kyle's his best butt buddy, he thinks that I'm suddenly free game.

It kind of smarts to think that even back when I was something, Cartman must have seen me hiding behind my best friend. He must have seen me as weak.

I'm not weak anymore.

It's not like I have to explain the detention to my mom and dad, either. My parents gave up on me a long time ago.

Making my way into the lunch room, I keep a lookout for my friends.

They're not here. Fuck. They probably got into trouble yet again. I see the Goths sitting in the far corner, drinking little cups of coffee; black, not that hoity-toity shit. I could sit with them, but that would really justify what everyone's been thinking for years. Even though they're interesting if you can get them off the coffee and the subject of Britney wannabes for a minute, I can't sit with them.

The last thing I need is all those jeers of emo-pussy-loser vindicated by one poor lunchroom seating decision.

For a second I glimpse _him_ , sitting at a table near the center of the cafeteria, cradling a hamburger in one hand while he talks about something or other with his pretty girlfriend.

Oh yeah. Let's discuss his girlfriend. Bebe Motherfucking Stevens. This is the same girl that asked me out three times in sixth grade, once in seventh, and four in eighth. All during the frequent hiatuses between Wendy and me, of course.

I turned her down flat every time. The first time she went crawling to Kyle, he did too.

Bebe's all boobs and hips and a fairly nice ass, but she's got as much substance as a rock.

She asked Kyle out again during our junior year. They've been dating for roughly six months. I don't get it, and I don't really want to get it. The last conversation I had with that bitch consisted of a few traded insults and her threatening to knee me in the nuts.

Right now she's wearing a light blue top that is low cut enough that I can see the top of her breasts, and see through enough that the little polka dot print on her bra is visible halfway across the cafeteria. She doesn't usually sit with Kyle and my ex friends, but I think today she's playing hooky from cheerleading practice so she can slobber all over everyone's favorite Jew.

They're shoving their tongues down each others' throats. It's sickening.

Against my better judgment, I find an empty table nearby. Close enough that I can listen in.

Not to the making out part. That would be gross. Trust me; there'll be something to hear. There always is.

I eavesdrop. It might not be the most moral thing to do, but fuck morals. Know thy enemy, right? Even if Kyle's not actually my enemy, I might as well do some reconnaissance before trying to get back into his life.

You wanna know why having him as my best friend again is so important, don't you?

Too damned bad.

Cartman's walking up now, although waddling might be the operative term here. He may have become a bit more solid over the years, but there's still a distinctly detectable jiggle whenever he moves.

Kyle spots him, and I swear to God, he fucking lights up like a beacon. Before he can open his mouth though, Bebe beats him to the punch.

"What the hell happened to you, fatass?"

Cartman slides onto the bench opposite the couple, muttering, "Aye! Mind your mouth, ho."

"Dude," Kyle reaches across the table and places a placating hand on Cartman's arm. The fatboy's eyes slit like he wants to say something about how gay it is, but Kyle cuts him off, "What happened?"

"Kaaaahl," Cartman drawls, and I swear to god he's positively beaming from all the attention Kosher Boy's laying on him, queer or not, "That hippie-fag Raven hit me."

I see Kyle frown, "Unprovoked?"

Cartman looks at him blankly. Sweet Jesus, he's a stupid fuck.

Kyle sighs and prompts, "For no reason, I mean?"

Like I ever needed a reason to hit that asshole before they became bestest best friends.

"How should I know?" Cartman snarls in reply, and I can feel him glaring lasers at me out of my peripheral vision, "I probably insulted his faggy little boyfriend."

"Dude, Stan's not gay," Kyle tells him bluntly. Now I'm the one beaming with pride.

Bebe asks, "He's not? Really?"

I could hit her. It would be so easy. I could just get up, and slam my lunch tray into her little pug face.

"No," Kyle chews on his lip, the way I used to when I still had my piercing. If we were still friends, I would claim he got the habit from me. We were always picking up on each other's bad habits back in the day.

I kinda miss that.

"How do you know?" Bebe presses, "He's always with Craig and Clyde, and they're definitely queer."

"So he's gay by association?" Kyle asks wryly. I'm just so happy listening to him defend me right now.

Maybe there's really a chance for us to be friends again. Maybe.

"He's an emo-hippie-fag," Cartman interjects. Obviously his black eye and fat lip aren't enough to teach him a lesson. I shake my head in disgust, staring down at the food I bought that I have yet to touch. Their conversation is infinitely more interesting.

"Let's stop talking about him," Kyle suggests.

So much for him defending me. I guess I could see how it's tiresome. The only contact we've really had in the last three years or so has consisted of brief waves hello and the occasional awkward forced history assignment. The latter of which I always just let him do so we can have minimum contact.

"But Kahl, why do you care? I'm a better best friend than he was, right? Right Kahl?"

He doesn't say anything.

I could kiss him. See, I'm not all about the violence and angst.

"Hey guys," Kenny interrupts, setting down his tray. They greet him, all mostly unenthusiastic.

I used to feel bad for Kenny. If he ceased to exist, I think no one would notice. It's always been like that, even when we were kids.

He sees me looking. He's the only one who ever does. I've narrowed it down to him being both incredibly observant and a sick pervert.

The explanation for that last part comes now.

"Po'Boy, you stink. Did you sleep in a dumpster again? Had to hide from the five oh?"

Kenny ignores Cartman's jibes and slides into the seat on Kyle's unoccupied side. He glances at me. He smiles, not so nicely. He slides an arm around Kyle's shoulders.

I look away, hearing Cartman whine, "Kenneh, I'm talking to you!"

See, here's the thing. Somewhere along the line last May, I think Kenny figured out that I wanted to be friends with Kyle again. Something about the way I would sneak into Kyle's basketball games to support him.

Well, Kenny kind of...misconstrued my attention.

Mostly because if anyone's a giant fag in this scenario, it's him. He outright confessed to me that he has a giant boner for my ex super best friend. Now he's sitting there, trying to look all snarky in his ripped jeans, grungy, unwashed shirt, and ancient trucker hat, just to put on a show for me.

He thinks I'm after Kyle _that_ way. I'm not, btdubs. I just want my best friend back.

"Actually, I spent the night with your crack whore mother," Kenny replies softly. Kyle snorts with laughter, and the blond grins in delight.

I feel a pang of jealousy. He made Kyle laugh. How long has it been since I made Kyle laugh? I could've come up with something better than a jab at Cartman's mom, too.

I'm still halfheartedly listening when it hits me. Shit. Lunch detention.

As I gather my things to leave, I hear my name.

Not Raven. My actual name.

"Stan! Bye!"

It's Kyle. He's offering me a tentative smile, waving ever so slightly.

See? What'd I say? We're not mortal enemies. It's not like we ever ignore each other. He just doesn't care enough to do anything more than that.

And for the longest time, neither have I. We just stopped being best friends.

God, I miss him. I'm going to fix that. Soon. Right now it just gives me the slightest satisfaction that he's smiling while the fatass is turning red in the face yelling at him not to talk to me.

I see Kenny's eyes narrow dangerously. So I smile and wave back. Days like these remind me why I'm putting my plan into action.

* * *

 

I find Craig and Clyde in detention. Let me list the ways in which I'm not surprised.

"You guys are assholes," I whisper, setting my stuff onto a desk in front of them.

Craig flips me off. I return the favor.

"Heard you socked Cartman one," Clyde hisses at me, grinning. We all have our eyes on the front of the room, where one of the freshman English teachers is exercising his daily power trip of authority by screaming at anyone who twitches the wrong way.

"Heard you graffiti'd the bathroom. Or wait, got caught sucking each other off in the janitor's closet. Which was it today?"

"Neither, fuckwit," Craig replies, nonplussed, "We released all the dissection frogs in the bio lab."

"Cliché," I answer, even though it doesn't surprise me. Ever since he made that stupid TV show about animals wearing hats in third or fourth grade, Craig's held a soft spot for all things living.

"Fuck that! It was _classic_ ," Clyde quietly crows, still enamored with the memory of their prank of the day.

"So why'd you hit Cartman? Did he make fun of your Goth poetry about slitting your wrists?"

"No. Actually he was trash talking how he could give it to Clyde better than you ever could. I just defended your gay asses."

Before Craig could see red and go hunt down the neo-Nazi himself, Clyde says, "Gee. We're touched by the gesture."

"Better than being touched by Cartman's shriveled dick," I mutter back.

Craig and Clyde both shudder, "Did not need that image, Marsh."

Neither of them will call me Raven, and I won't let them call me Stan. Calling me by my last name is their version of a compromise.

"You want to go to Coffee Blue tonight?" Clyde asks after five minutes of enforced silence, during which Craig drew a rather artistic rendering of male genitalia across the surface of his desk.

The black haired boy looks up from his newest drawing, which is to my best knowledge a female interpretation of his previous sketch and nudges Clyde, "Dude. Lame. You want to go watch those scene kids cry over their dead hamsters?"

"He has a crush on the new barista," I say and then add, "And the only one who cries over their dead hamster is you, Craig."

He flips me off once more. He's so predictable.

Let me explain.

Meet Craig Tucker and Clyde Donovan. Craig's the one with the shaggy black hair and a badass sneer, and Clyde's the one wearing a varsity football jacket who has his light brown hair cut like a little boy.

I grew up with these kids.

Up until eighth grade, I thought that Craig was an arrogant prick, which he is, and that Clyde was a dumb asshole, which he is. However, they also happen to be damned good football players, which is how we bonded. That summer that I skipped going to Kyle's Florida Dream Barbie Beach House, I ended up spending a month and a half with these jerkoffs.

They're actually pretty cool.

That first day of school, when they saw that I had no one to sit with; they sat with me in the cafeteria. It was a continuation on the bonding thing.

When I got kicked off the squad, they stayed friends with me.

Part of it might have been that Craig also got kicked off the team. He was caught smoking a joint behind the gym during practice, which wasn't one of his brighter moves.

Clyde's actually on the varsity string now. He's Park County High's star quarterback, which doesn't mean that he can play for shit, but he's better than everyone else on the team.

Of course, you would think that because Clyde's good at football, he'd be popular. Sadly, he suffers from social anxiety disorder.

Well, that's the theory. The other theory, the one that's most popular and that he actually has no inkling of, is that he and Craig spend each night ass-ramming each other. I haven't had the heart to tell them. Mostly because for the longest time I thought it was true. When I found out both boys were straight as a pencil, I kind of went on cleanup duty, making sure neither heard too much of the rumor floating around about them, unless it was teasing and directly from me.

Clyde doesn't need to know why he has such a hard time getting pussy.

I think, despite my efforts, Craig actually does know, but only because the last girl he tried to get with slapped him and told him not to cheat on his boyfriend.

Anyway, they're good guys. Neither is…well, Kyle, but they've been good friends to me.

"I'll go," I tell Clyde approvingly. Craig agrees too.

Then the jackass English teacher notices us, and spends the next five minutes before lunch ends reaming us all out.

Jeez. Just what I needed to start the second half of the day.


	3. Do You Remember When We Used To Sing

Kyle smokes.

He smokes behind the school, near the cafeteria dumpsters in between classes. He smokes in the boy's bathroom during free period. He can make perfectly circular, hazy rings on a clear day. I've seen it once or twice in passing.

It's a neat party trick.

Kenny doesn't smoke, per se. You would think that being so prone to addiction, cigarettes would be Kenny's favorite thing, but back when we still had the civility to talk to one another, he might have mentioned something about not provoking death.

Besides, smoking is an expensive habit. As is visiting the dentist to get the nicotine stains removed from your teeth. So he never goes out and buys his own packs. He never smokes outside of school.

But he smokes with Kyle. At first I thought he was doing it just because he likes spending time with him. Now I think he half does it to aggravate me.

See, Kenny is in the vast majority of my classes. Every time the bell rings, the blaring sound killing a thousand cells in my eardrums, Kenny will flash me his unnaturally white-for-a-poor-boy smile, prance out of class, and instantly track down Kyle, to drag him out for a cigarette.

I don't know whether he does it because he knows it makes me jealous, or if he knows I disapprove of the habit, or maybe just to keep Kyle away from me. All I know is that unfailingly, he does it. And he makes sure I see, every single time.

Craig smokes too. He thinks it makes him look cool, like an old cowboy. Every once in a while he tries to get Clyde or I to join in.

I've pretty much mastered my asthma, but I don't like to risk my life on it. Clyde just hates the smell. Plus there's a major possibility he'd get kicked off the team if the coach caught him. So, inevitably, Craig sneaks over to the dumpsters to have his cigarette alone.

The first time it happened, I think he was drawn by the sight of lit embers. Wondering who his fellow addict was, he traipsed around the back of the school, only to find Kyle alone, smoking.

They had a conversation. Then they had another.

Kyle likes Craig. Kyle likes most everybody, actually. The upside here is that every time Kenny whisks Kyle away, Craig usually ends up finding them and interrupting their one on one time.

It used to be that I'd never get envious of two of my friends spending time together without me.

But this isn't just time. This is Kenny deliberately keeping Kyle out of my sight.

I don't get Kenny. I really don't. When I suddenly became the emo-outcast of the school, Kenny had no problem keeping open a dialogue with me. Once I became friends with Craig and Clyde, yeah, we talked less. Still, we never fought. We never had any problems at all, as far as I know.

I think that Kenny's loathing of me must have developed around the time he fell in love with Kyle. I couldn't pinpoint when exactly that was. All I know is that he is, and it's blatantly obvious to everyone. Everyone except, it seems, Kyle.

As to why he sees me as his adversary, I'll never know. I just want the guy as a friend, not a lover.

I wonder if Kyle would be disgusted if he knew how Kenny feels about him. I wonder if he already knows.

Right now, Craig, Kyle, and Kenny are smoking behind the school. I could take this opportunity to go say hi. I could go under the pretense that I wanted to start smoking, or more plausibly that I wanted to ask Craig something. Then I could nudge my friend with my foot, and try to get him to draw me into whatever conversation is going on.

I could.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the window, a silhouette in black. Black shirt, black skullcap, jeans so dark they may as well be black. I don't even really like black. People just expect me to wear it.

I think of Kyle, and the day he found me wearing that Goth shirt. I think of the way he flipped out.

Maybe I should wait until tomorrow to talk to him. Maybe then I'll wear a red shirt. I think I have a red one somewhere.

No wait, red is still a Goth color, right? Maybe blue. Yeah. I know I have this one blue shirt that Mom says matches my eyes, not that Kyle will care about that.

Still entranced by my own indistinct reflection in the window, I don't notice I'm blocking pedestrian traffic until I get an elbow to the gut. I turn my best patented glare on the perpetrator. She just smiles sweetly and goes, "Oh, sorry Raven."

It's Wendy.

"I'm sure you are, skank," I hiss back. Her smile never leaves her face. She just taps her lips with a finger, like she's got some sort of secret that she was going to tell me, but now I've been too rude for her to spill it, and walks away.

Her hips sashay the entire time, like she's some sort of fucking supermodel. Yeah, right. Because they even let girls become models when they're five foot two.

Even so, I watch the way her skirt frames her firm little butt. Oh yeah, I remember. That's why I dated her.

I have class now. In a few minutes, Craig will come back from his smoke break. So will Kenny and Kyle. They'll be greeted by Cartman, of course, who waits for them to finish killing their lungs like some sort of tail-wagging puppy.

He waits for Kyle, every day. Kyle, his best friend.

I wince. After four years, shouldn't it not hurt anymore? Tomorrow I'm definitely wearing the blue shirt. I'm going to go out and talk to him.

"Marsh! Yeah, you pussy, I'm talking to you!" I hear Craig's footsteps pounding on the hall way. He's running towards me.

It's kind of intimidating to have Craig run towards you. He may no longer be a football player, but he's still built like one. Although I guess I shouldn't say anything about that; so am I. We play hockey every Saturday to keep in shape, because Clyde swears he can't hang out with us if we look like crap.

The tiny part of me that just can't get over the thing where they're straight thinks Clyde just likes checking Craig out in a jersey, but who am I to judge?

"What do you want, Tucker?" I drawl, wrinkling my nose against the smell of stale smoke that emanates off him, even three feet away.

Craig's eyes flicker at the movement, and he frowns in disgust, "You are such a Melvin sometimes."

"You reek like an ashtray," I say.

"Oh? Like I really fucking care. Dude, that Goth chick was looking for you. You know, the one with the really big badonkadonk."

Clyde snorts at his word usage, appearing behind Craig's shoulder. He looks good, with his brown hair all windswept and his varsity letterman slung over his shoulder.

I wonder if Kyle would still like me if I had a letterman.

Shit. Craig's right. I'm a total pussy. I'm worrying about whether Kyle will like what I'm wearing?

I mean, okay, it's kind of justified because of the Goth-shirt incident, but didn't I just decide on the blue shirt? That's enough deliberating on that subject.

"Henrietta?" I frown, "What the hell did she want?"

"I don't know. Her and that baby-Goth were all, hey, conformist assholes, and I was like yeah, you fat bitch?" Craig's bubbling over with excitement. It's kind of endearing, actually, "And then she was like, don't call me a bitch, bitch-"

"Fascinating story," I cut him off, "But what's the point?"

"The point is, she's looking for you," Clyde interrupts, "And I think she wants you now."

The bell rings, that brain cell murdering noise, and then the hall goes quiet.

It's the first in a series of three. Already, the students milling around us are evacuating the premises for classrooms full of pinched faced teachers.

"Well she can suck me," I tell them, "Because if I get another detention this week, my mom will pitch a fit."

"I thought you didn't care what your mom thinks?" Craig counters, his face full of snarkiness that I'd just love to punch off for him.

"I don't," I retort, "But then she'll tell your mom, and I'll stop getting those late night booty calls."

" _Hey_!" His face reddens, "Don't say shit about my mom!"

I'm grinning. Craig only gets defensive about four things. His family, Red Racer, Clyde, and guinea pigs. Oh, and me, I guess, when I'm not around to hear it. That makes five.

The bell rings again. I flip Craig off, and he returns the favor. Then we have a free for all jog to class, weaving around slower students making their way to study hall or gym, the only classes you don't get written up for being late in.

The fuck does Henrietta want? Probably to tell me that I've disappointed even their normal Justin standards by becoming some Fallout Boy parody. That's what the clique tries to preach to me every so often in their attempts to lure me back to the dark side.

They think because I spend my weekends at the coffee house listening to poetry I'm slowly being lured back to their ways.

I can't really blame them. Everyone else thinks that too.

* * *

 

I choose the blue shirt. It's appropriately tight.

All my shirts are. If I have the football-hockey-abs, I figure I have every right to show them off before I start sporting a college beer belly I can never rid myself of, like my dad. I have no illusions that I won't get one; I plan on drinking every ounce of liquor in the vicinity of wherever I end up getting accepted.

Wherever will take me, I should say. My grades aren't exactly stellar. When I'd first entered this hell hole, I figured that Kyle would help me make it through the tough classes. Now Cartman and Kenny are higher on the academic ranking list than I am, and it's not because they suddenly developed brains.

"Mom!" I screech from the top of the stairs. My mom hurries to the bottom. She's got flour on her cheek. I think she's making pancakes.

"What, honey?" she asks in this tired voice. I run down to meet her, the sun shedding light on all the worry lines her face has developed in the last four years.

I hate thinking I put those there.

"Does this shirt look okay on me?" I ask frantically, putting an arm around her shoulders and steering her back into the kitchen.

Being taller than my mom was weird at first. I always find myself looking down at the part in her hair and wondering if she dyes it or not.

In all my years, I've never actually seen my mother's natural color, but I'm almost positive this heather brown thing she's got going on isn't it. In all the pictures I've seen of her parents, dead Grandma and Grandpa have dark hair.

Yes, I call my deceased grandparents dead Grandma and dead Grandpa. Get over it.

"It looks nice, Stan," I can see her brighten ever so slightly, "You're wearing that to school?"

I kiss her on the cheek. I can tell she's excited about this development. I am too. Did I mention I hate wearing black all the time?

"Yep."

The kitchen smells like pancakes, which is awesome. My stomach growls at the scent.

Ever since Shelly left for college, mom's been trying to compensate for her absence by making me all kinds of yummy food, all the time. I don't think mom realizes that I'm not the one who misses big sister. But either way, I'm a teenage boy, and food is food. Righteous.

I take a seat at one of the stainless steel stools we have set up at the island counter. Mom sets a batch of steaming hot pancakes in front of me and says, "What prompted this little foray into the wonderful world of color, Stanley?"

"Hmm?" I mumble through a mouthful of pancake, doused in syrup, "Um- oh. Well, I was thinking…"

I wonder if I should tell her. It would only get her hopes up. Mom loves Kyle. I think it just about broke her heart when we stopped talking.

At first, when Kyle and I went incommunicado, mom tried to strategically organize dinners with the Broflovskis. They're best friends with my 'rents, so it wasn't completely weird or anything. But then she saw how Kyle and I were avoiding conversation, and how much that bothered me. She sort of gave up after that.

Every once in awhile the Broflovskis still invite our family over, and mom invites them too. I usually beg out, saying I'm sick or that I have a prior arrangement with Craig. Mom lets it pass, because she knows what I'm really doing.

So yeah, she'd be really happy if I told her.

"I was just thinking that it's a nice day for a change," I conclude.

Her smile doesn't leave her face. I guess she's just happy to see me happy.

I venture, "Actually, mom, why don't we go to town on Saturday and pick up some new clothes?"

If I'm going to make her happy, I might as well go all out.

And I've succeeded. Mom's positively beaming.

"Really? Stan, that'd be wonderful."

I flash her a grin and dig into the rest of my breakfast.

At least I made someone's day. Now hopefully, I can succeed in my mission.

Goal numero uno; make Kyle like me again.

* * *

It's between third and fourth period that I get my chance.

I watch with a sardonic smile as Kenny drags Kyle out to smoke. I even waggle my fingers at him in a little wave. Kenny's eyes flash suspiciously. He can tell I'm up to something, or he can, and he doesn't like it.

I run my tongue over the scar from my lip ring. Here goes nothing.

I see Craig first, reclining against a dumpster and gesturing about something or other. Craig barely ever talks about anything really important, but he's always passionate. That's probably what Clyde loves about him.

Hell, that's one of the things I always loved about Kyle, actually. He was never afraid to voice his opinion, no matter how stupid it was. Gee. I can sort of see how I thought Craig was an ideal friend now.

"Dude," I call out to Craig's back. My friend's shoulders stiffen in surprise.

He spins on his heel, and the cigarette hanging from his lips falls, dropping neatly on his shoe. He lunges for it before it can burn a hole in the canvas, but still manages to squeak out, "Marsh?"

You know when people's eyes look like they're laughing? I'd bet you ten bucks mine are doing that right now. I haven't been in this good a mood in ages.

I take that as a good omen. Behind Craig, I can see Kenny, who's predictably seething, and Kyle, who's doing this raised eyebrow thing that I always envied when I was a kid. I can only raise them both together.

"Close your mouth before Clyde sees and decides to stick his dick in there," I advise him. Craig obliges, placing the cigarette butt back between his lips.

"What the fuck are you doing here, man? Yesterday you said I smelled rank."

Yeah. Thanks a lot, dude. There goes my excuse about wanting to try one.

I mentally switch gears, "I wanted to ask you what the homework was for last period."

Craig gapes at me. We had last period together. I don't know why his lips are moving like a fricking fish. Is it a really see through excuse?

I glance towards Kyle. Kyle, of the emerald eyes and the eyebrow piercing. He's looking at me with a mixture of amusement and interest, and something else I can't quite recognize.

I take it as a good sign.

"Hey," I say, trying to look happy, but not too happy. I've never had to pay so much attention to my facial expression before.

"Hey," he manages to say back, although I detect more than a hint of surprise in his voice.

"Raven," Kenny practically hisses through gritted teeth, "I'd be happy to tell you what the homework is."

He then rattles off a series of page numbers and crosses his arms in satisfaction.

I frown. Way to be a total douchebag.

I'd forgotten he might be an obstacle, actually.

"Thanks dude," I reply, mustering up what I hope is a genuine looking smile.

It probably disintegrates into a smirk, but whatever. He doesn't want me here, and I'm not leaving. "So how have you guys been?"

I can tell this question shocks Kyle and Craig more than my appearance. Mostly because Craig puts one long fingered hand to my forehead, sucks in a hit from his cigarette, and asks, "Are you alright?"

I roll my eyes and nudge him with my foot.

His dark eyes widen. Yeah. Now he gets it.

"Um. We've been good, Stan. What about you?"

Kyle. Ever the polite one.

"Fine," I shrug, "Classes this semester are killing me."

"Me too," Craig agrees, finally managing to bury the rest of his surprise, "Clyde told me that he's already failing off the team."

"Really?" Kyle asks, interested, "Most of my classes are easier than usual. Kenny, aren't you in a lot of Stan's classes?"

Have I mentioned I love the way he says my name? None of that Raven shit from him, even though he's the one who started it.

Kyle's called me Raven exactly twice in my life, and I'll never forget either. The first time was during the fight. The second happened two months into freshman year. We were playing dodgeball in gym. We were still in the general avoid and scowl at each other phase of the decay of our friendship, so naturally, while we weren't gunning for each other, we weren't looking out for each other either.

It came down to me, Kyle, and this other kid. The other kid happened to be some weak-kneed boy with glasses and a pocket protector. So Kyle broke the radio silence we'd carefully established over those two months. He gave me this glare loaded with fury and sadness and hate. Then he said, "Raven, catch."

I didn't, of course. I was so surprised to hear him speak to me that I took the ball right to the gut. I fell back on my butt. As a basketball player, Kyle throws hard.

I remember looking up at him all full of shock and accusation and mouthing the word 'Raven'. It left a nasty taste on my tongue.

I think he could tell, because he's called me Stan ever since.

Not that anyone else ever followed his lead. Cartman's to thank for that one; he overheard that I was going by the nickname among coffee-shop friends and ran with it. That's why it was all over school my first day. That's why I hate it so much.

But you know what they say. Fuck the haters. I made the name my own. Even if I still wish everyone would drop it and call me Stan.

"Yeah," Kenny replies, still glaring daggers at me, "I thought they've been going really well. Must be my superior intelligence."

Kyle rolls his eyes, "Or me tutoring you."

"Yeah. It could be that," he replies dryly.

"Do you need a tutor, Stan?"

Kenny's face goes white with rage at that.

"Kyle-"

Kyle holds up a hand, and I'm sure he's about to tell me that the school's got tutors available. There's no way he could possibly be volunteering himself. No way at all.

"It's okay. I think there're some college guys willing to do it at Coffee Blue," I say in a hurry. I don't think I can take him waving that false hope in front of me only to take it away. So I don't let him do it.

Craig gives me this severe look.

I ignore him. I've gotten really good at that.

"Oh," Kyle says, "Well that's good."

This is the longest conversation I've held with this boy in four years.

I remember sleepovers where we used to spend hours talking about Indiana Jones. Now we can barely talk about tutoring. It's making me kind of sad.

I feel the good mood that buoyed me earlier draining away. Mentioning Coffee Blue wasn't a good idea. I know what Kyle thinks about that place. It doesn't help that he's never been there.

Never been there. Wait a second.

"You know, dude," I shift uncomfortably in my sneakers. Am I really going to say this? Hell yeah. "Um, the coffee house- erm, I mean the college kids who go there, they hold this acoustic guitar jam session every Saturday night, and lately some of the guys have been trying to start this thing where they ask philosophical questions and get all the customers into a debate…it seems like something you might like. You should drop by, sometime. If you want."

"Why would Kyle go to some faggy little Goth coffee shop?" Kenny sneers.

I discretely flip the other boy the bird. Ex-friend or no, he needs to learn to keep his fucking mouth shut.

Craig, surprisingly, comes to my defense. "It's not a Goth shop. Clyde and I go there all the time. It's full of hipsters and scene kids, but the lattes are good, and the acoustic jam sessions rock."

Wow. That was rather eloquent for someone who hates the place. Clyde and I must be winning him over.

Kyle frowns. "I always thought that place was Goth too. It's so dark."

I wonder what he's thinking. I wonder if he remembers that our fight started over me going to that place. Over me being _too Goth_ for him.

"The walls are painted dark blue," Craig explains, "But only because you can write on them, and a few local painters contributed too."

"That sounds…cool," Kyle bites his lip. Subconsciously, I run my tongue over my scar again. He's going to say yes.

He has to say yes. I need a chance to talk to him, other than this pretext of finding out about homework. He knows me. He knows I don't even do homework.

"I'll swing by sometime," he says finally.

"Dude, you know Cartman won't come," Kenny interrupts.

I wince. Cartman. I forgot.

Kyle straightens, throwing his cigarette to the ground. The embers burn themselves out before he squishes the end with the heel of his Converse.

"Cartman doesn't have to come. We're not attached at the hip."

"Could've fooled me," Kenny mutters. Kyle doesn't say anything at all.

I don't care. He's coming. He's actually going to come.

Is it too queer if I spend the rest of the week thinking up something to say when I see him? Probably.

Yes!

The bell rings. Kyle waves, and Kenny maturely sticks his tongue out as they race off to class. Craig turns to me, "What the hell was that?"

I square my shoulders. Time to spill the beans.

"I want Kyle to be my friend again."

"Yeah. Kind of obvious."

"Then why'd you ask?"

"Just wanted to see if you could admit it. C'mon."

I follow Craig back into the hallway.

He asks if I talked to that fat bitch yet. I tell him no. Whatever Henrietta wants to talk about isn't even on my list of priorities right now.


	4. Strip Me Bare, Don’t Let Me Breathe

I’ve spent the past three weeks waiting for Kyle to show up at Coffee Blue, but I’m beginning to think my super best friend powers died along with our friendship. He's nowhere to be found. Which. I always used to be able to read Kyle, and I was positive that he would show.

Now I’ve been proven horribly, catastrophically wrong, and I’m not quite sure how to feel about it.

This is the third Saturday in a row that’s found me at my favorite corner table, near the blue wall covered in illegible black scrawl. I think its song lyrics, but whatever. I find the hypnotizing ink swirls comforting, so I always try to choose this table if I can.

Clyde and Craig skipped out on me tonight. They decided that the lame welcome back to school dance was more enticing than spending another night with my moping.

I hate thinking that they’re right.

Maybe I am the loser that Kyle thinks I am. Maybe the name Raven fits me. Blargh.

Up on the tiny makeshift stage that the coffee house set up, there’s a guy with an acoustic guitar playing some alternative cover. In another hour, there will probably be five or six other aspiring musicians joining him, some with guitars, some with electronic keyboards, and some with tiny, tribal looking balsa wood drums. The walls will shake from the music they make, and I’ll still be alone. Probably. Most likely. Ugh.

Maybe I should just leave, and go to the dance.

No. That’s where Kyle is, I’d bet. He’s dating Bebe. It figures that she’d drag him to the dorky school dance. Like. Why are they even having a back to school dance now? School’s been going on for three and a half weeks.

A familiar looking boy with shaggy hair slides into the chair across from me. I open my mouth, ready to say something about it being taken.

Then I realize who this kid is. His dark hair is tipped with crimson red, and I watch, quiet as he brushes it anxiously out of his eyes.

“Derek,” I mutter, “What the hell do you want?”

“That’s not really a greeting, Raven,” he tells me in that raspy voice of his.

A couple of the girls that still deign to talk to me tell me that Derek’s voice is sexy. I tell them it’s just the result of choking his esophagus with smoke since he was nine.

Apparently that makes me sound ‘jealous’. Girls are completely beyond me sometimes.

“It wasn’t supposed to be,” I reply, making my voice as icy as possible. When Kyle first stopped talking to me, I considered returning to the Goth kids. I say ‘returning’ because I’d never really befriended them. I didn’t actually know them the way I would know a friend. I just…understood them, a little. I guess.

Then Butters's words from grade school came back to me. Did I really want to be some faggy Goth kid? Hell no. I’d already said screw you guys to that group once before.

Plus I had Craig and Clyde to curse me back to sensibility.

Anyway, I guess the Goths kind of expected me to join up with them too. When I didn’t, they formed a resentment of me that I’ve never really understood. Plenty of people reject their dumb clique every single day. What made me different?

Senior year and I still haven’t gotten an answer.

I’m wearing this blue-gray shirt in an attempt to look brighter for Kyle, but I paired it with this black beanie that I’ve been wearing for so long I’m rarely comfortable without it. Now I pull the thing down so that my bangs fall into my eyes. Anything to avoid looking directly at Derek. He might turn me to stone or something.

“Look, _Raven_ ,” Derek tries again, his dark eyes glaring at me. He emphasizes my name, mostly because he knows I hate it, “Henrietta’s been trying to talk to you forever. You keep avoiding her.”

“Henrietta’s a cunt,” I say, hoping the bad word will shock him into leaving. Sadly, it’s a no go. Derek doesn’t even blink. He just flips his hair out of his eyes again; which might I mention is a really obnoxious habit.

“She wants to tell you something important-“

“Then why didn’t she stalk me herself?” I narrow my eyes, “I guess having minions is giving the fat bitch a power trip.”

Derek opens his mouth to hiss something more, but before he can a voice cuts in, “Stan?”

I’m on my feet in seconds, jumping away from the table in a desperate attempt to disassociate myself with Derek.

“Kyle!” I squeak out, my voice catching.

“Hi,” he says shyly, glancing curiously at the Goth, but then dismissing him. Behind me I can almost feel Derek roll his eyes.

“Um, hi. Wow, you showed up.”

“You didn’t think I would,” he observes, his green gaze attached to my face. Normally it makes me really uncomfortable when people stare at me, unwavering. But with Kyle…it feels nice.

“No,” I admit, “I didn’t.”

His eyes wander from me to the walls, and then to the musician on stage. Now it’s a boy twanging out some countrified indie song. Kyle smiles weakly, “This place is pretty awesome. It’s different- er- different than I thought it would be.”

I know what he thought. He thought that there would be midnight poetry readings and drinks that looked like blood or something.

I’m too nice to say so, and the tension between us hangs.

“Do you want to order a coffee?” I suggest, grabbing hold of something tangible, an action that we can do together.

“I’m not a big coffee drinker,” he admits, and my heart plummets. Then he brightens, “But maybe you could suggest something good? I like lattes. Didn’t Craig say they have lattes?”

I nod vigorously, “They have great lattes.”

He smiles, and I return it. If Derek snorts behind me, I don’t hear it. He could be gone for all I care. Kyle’s here, in my space. There’s no one else. No Bebe. No Kenny. No fucking Cartman. Just Kyle.

I usher Kyle to the front, where the pretty barista that Clyde likes is smiling and engaging in some conversation about the environment.

I wasn’t aware that Clyde went for smart girls. Then again, I’m pretty sure his crush on this chick, like all his crushes ever, is fleeting, but I’m not going to touch that one with a ten foot pole.

I ask the barista for two polar bear lattes.

“What’s that?” Kyle asks, nervous.

“A latte with honey and vanilla in it, basically.”

He’s reading the board behind the counter with interest. There are drinks with names like ‘The Graveyard’, which is basically an excess of caffeine and sugar, and more normal drinks like Caramel Macchiatos and Frappucinos.

“It’s like a hipster version of Harbucks,” Kyle tells me, almost excited, like he’s uncovered some secret place.

Then his smile falls, probably because he realizes I already knew that.

I give him an encouraging grin, “You’re right.”

More than anything I want this not to be awkward. I want Kyle and I to instantly click again, although I don’t suppose that’s actually going to happen. But at the very least I want him to know that I miss my best friend. He has to know.

We get our coffee and return to my favorite table. Derek’s gone, to my relief.

For a couple of minutes Kyle and I just sit and watch the kid on stage strum his guitar. It’s peaceful, if not a little awkward.

He turns to me, finally, “You were right. There are a lot of college kids here.”

“Yeah. I think it’s something for them to do before the bars start serving…or after they close.”

“This place stays open that long?”

“Yep.”

Great. I’m so tongue-tied that I can’t think of anything else to stay.

Why is being around Kyle making me feel this way? I never used to have a problem. Then again, I never used to be so scared that I’d say something that would send him bolting for the door either.

“So…um…how’s life, Stan?”

I will never get sick of hearing my name out of his mouth. Ever.

“It’s okay. School sucks, but you knew that, because school always sucks,” I grin.

“Do you…have a girlfriend?”

“No,” I sigh theatrically, “Girls don’t seem to like me.”

“I wonder why?” he says with no trace of malice.

I know why. Cartman told them all I was gay. That hasn’t stopped a few from asking me out, but the truth is that I find girls annoying. And untrustworthy.

Wendy, among others, kind of ruined it for me, if I'm being completely honest. When someone with a trace of estrogen approaches me, I’m more likely to run in the opposite direction.

“I was joking,” I tell Kyle, “There’s been a couple. I’m single right now.”

“Oh.”

“How about you? You and Bebe have been getting along well for awhile now.”

“Uh. Yeah. Bebe,” he looks guilty.

“Is something wrong?”

“I was supposed to be at the dance. With Bebe.”

I frown, not understanding, “Then why’d you come here?”

“I…I told you I would,” he shifts uncomfortably, “I can leave, if you want.”

“No!” I almost shout. He glances up sharply, startled, “No. I mean, I invited you here, didn’t I? You should stay. Check the place out.”

God! Why can’t I just tell him that I want to be his friend again?

Maybe because I’m terrified that he’ll reject me. I don’t think I could take him flat out telling me that there’s no chance.

“Okay,” he replies, his voice wavering, “So you hang out a lot with Clyde and Craig, right?”

“They’re my best friends,” I answer. Then my mouth clicks shut, audibly.

Shit. I look quickly at him. His face doesn’t droop, or show any visible sign that I’ve upset him. I wonder if I should be happy or sad.

I wonder if I wanted him to say, ‘But Stan, I’m your best friend’. Ha. Fat chance of that happening.

“That’s really good. That you guys are so close, I mean,” Kyle takes a slow sip of his drink. His eyebrow ring catches the dim lighting of the coffee house. I like the way it looks against the thin, fine hair arching over his eye, redder than a fire engine.

No one else has hair like Kyle, at least not in South Park. I always thought that was cool, back when we were young. He was one of a kind. Unique. I thought maybe it made me special by proxy.

I smile and launch into a complicated story about Clyde and Craig, trying to loosen up the atmosphere. On stage the racket’s getting louder; a few more musicians have joined, making a fine fracas. I have to talk louder and louder over the music, but it doesn’t matter. Kyle’s grinning from ear to ear, his smile so close to the one I’ve been jealously coveting every time he gives it to Kenny or Cartman that I can’t help returning it. He’s enjoying my story. All’s right with the world.

And then…

My story ends. I finish my latte and say, “You know, I didn’t think you’d come.”

“You said,” he replies, amused.

“Well, I waited here every Saturday for the past few weeks,” I retort, still grinning.

His smile falls away, and I don’t know why, “You wanted to see me that much?”

“Uh.”

Yes. No. Should I have? What’s the right answer here?

“Stan.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, “I don’t know. Kyle, yeah, I wanted to see you.”

He stares at me, something unreadable in his eyes. I’m tensing. Did I mess up? I feel like I messed up somehow, but I can’t figure it out.

The music is still loud, but now it’s blaring on my nerves. What did I do wrong?

He pushes back his chair and announces, “I have to go.”

“Wait- what, Kyle?”

“Bye, Stan.”

I watch, frozen, as he walks away from me. Again.


	5. I Ended Up Too High But Never Learned To Fly

No. No fucking way. I am not letting Kyle walk out on me again.

Where would he go right now? I think hard, pounding my fist on the scratched wood of the table in Coffee Blue. There are three options. In option one I’m screwed, because he went to one of his friends’ houses. That gives me like, a million choices and no way to narrow it down. I can’t call the entire directory of Park County High School. I don’t even know the entire directory.

Most likely everybody is at the dance anyway. That’s option two.

Then there’s option three. He could have gone home.

Now I can’t very well show up at the Broflovski residence at eleven o’clock on a Saturday night. I know Kyle’s mom. She’ll think that’s massively rude.

Basically if he went home or to a friends’, I’m screwed. I guess my only choice is to try the dance.

I hate school dances. I hate streamers. I hate strobe lights. I hate the way everyone stares at me the second I walk in the door. Its fine keeping up my façade of ‘tough loner’ when I’m in school, but after hours and weekends is strictly the time to be me. So yeah, I also hate that I have to spend a Saturday night getting stared at like the bearded lady at a freak show.

Or maybe the dog boy. I’d make a great dog boy. Friendly. Loyal. Yeah, I’m definitely loyal. Who else would try to get a friend back who’d made it quite obvious they wanted nothing to do with the person?

Me, me, me!

I’m such a moron. Maybe Kyle ran off because he realized what a complete and utter douchebag I am.

No. That can’t be right. We were having fun. I think. Shit. Were we? I thought we were. Then I had to go bring up how much I wanted to see him…

Wait a second.

That sounds a little gay.

No. That sounds _a lot_ gay.

Maybe Kyle decided that sitting in some dark coffee house with another guy was really faggy.

Did he think I was coming on to him? Aw _man_! I just screwed up royally.

I race to the school in my mom’s borrowed car, a junker if there ever was one. She lets me take it on Saturdays under the condition that I don’t come home until later than one and I surrender it to Shelley on the days she’s home for college.

The later-than-one rule might seem a bit weird, but it’s because I’m giving her and dad some ‘personal time’. I _personally_ don’t want to dwell on it, so I just accept the rule and make sure not to come home early. No need to scar myself mentally for the next fifty years.

Anyway, I burn rubber into the parking lot, nearly hitting Wendy’s car. It’s bright pink and so tacky that for a moment I consider actually giving it a few dents. Then I decide I’m being petty and that Kyle’s more important. Wendy’s a skank, and I don’t need to enact any sort of vengeance for it. One day she’ll contract Chlamydia, and that will be vengeance enough.

Throwing open my door, I jump out my car. My sneakers’ muted slaps on the pavement echo against the asphalt as I bolt towards the gym. As soon as I hit the grass, I feel the damp start to seep through my jeans. They’re going to be covered by melted snow and bits of lawn by the time I’m there.

The doors of the gym loom ahead of me, a square of light that’s only fueling my anger. And I’m angry. Oh yes. How dare Kyle walk out on me? Even if he did think I was…gulp…hitting on him.

I can’t linger on how disturbing I find that. Instead I slam the gym doors wide, like I’ve seen guys do in the movies. It doesn’t attract nearly enough attention as I thought it would. Most of the people inside the dark gymnasium are in the center of the place, rubbing up against each other and ignoring the scent of socks.

“Raven, you little bitch. Isn’t there a rule against fags at the dance?” Cartman sneers at me. He’s sitting alone at the table closest to the door, which isn’t surprising. It’s the snack table.

“Fuck off, fatass,” I mutter under my breath. I should ask him if he’s seen Kyle, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I scan the moving crowd for that familiar head of red hair, but it’s too dark. All the colors have lost their saturation beneath the tiny fake disco ball and the flashing, frantic strobe light. I can’t even see what color the paper streamers are from here. So lame.

I shake my head and make my way around the perimeter, searching out Kyle. Nothing.

Maybe he’s in the bathrooms. Shoving my hands deep in the pockets of my jeans, I turn tail and head towards the boys’ locker room.

When I push back the door, I don’t find what I expect.

There are my two best friends. Nose to nose. Staring into each others’ eyes. Looking for all the world like they were about to…

“Marsh you fucking dickwad!”

…kiss. 

Straight, my fucking foot.

“Uh. Craig. Sorry. I- uh. Didn’t meant to-“

“You weren’t interrupting anything,” Clyde tells me brightly, his face the same color as his red letterman, “Was he, Craig?”

Craig tilts his head to the side, and I can see that Clyde’s words hurt him, “Yeah. No. We weren’t doin’ nothin’.”

“Right,” I say, just to fill the awkward silence that follows. Clyde pushes past me, out into the gym.

“Um, Craig,” I take a tentative step towards him, “Have you seen Kyle?”

“I don’t know,” Craig snaps, “Last I saw he was grinding with Bebe.”

“You can’t tell me anything else?” I plead with him, trying to ignore his piercing glare.

He pauses to think and then says in a malicious voice, “Yes. It was nauseating, thanks for asking.”

“Craig!”

“Marsh,” he replies in a mock-whining voice. I hate him so much right now. Then again, I think he hates me more.

“Sorry, dude.”

“Whatever,” he snorts.

We walk out of the locker room side by side, making our way to a table. Clyde’s standing next to some brunette I recognize from one of my science classes. She’s nice, if not a bit dimwitted. She’s also giving him a megawatt smile that’s making Craig simmer to a slow burn beside me.

We find some empty chairs to collapse in, and Craig busies himself filling two half empty punch glasses with some clear liquid he’s got in a flask. He hands one to me wordlessly.

I don’t worry about germs. The liquor will kill them.

“Cheers,” I say, because I don’t want to incite his anger any more than I already have. He raises his glass, then chugs back the whole of it.

I do the same.

“What were you and Clyde…um…?” I was going to ask what they were talking about. Then I realize they weren’t talking, and that maybe I don’t want to know.

“We were talking about football,” Craig sighs, “Clyde’s getting approached by a couple of universities about scholarships.”

“Oh.” I'm surprised because, like I said, Park County High's team isn't exactly tier one. Clyde's decent, yeah, but it doesn't stop us from losing every game we enter.  

Craig eyes me warily, “And the point is we’d been planning on going to college together. The places he’s looking at…I could never get in.”

“Sucks, dude.”

“Yeah, it really does,” Craig mutters, pouring himself another glass. I feel horrible for him.

At the same time I selfishly wonder, would Kyle and I be in the same predicament if we were still friends? He’s intelligent; too intelligent not to go Ivy League. What would we have done when college came around? Would we have even cared?

All this hypothesizing is dumb. I need to find him.

As if whatever gods are listening hear my prayers, I see a flash of blond hair emerge from the crowd. Kenny. How did Kyle even manage to come to Coffee Blue without Kenny?

I watch him as he sneaks out the back door, silent as a cat.

There’s only one reason Kenny would go out there. Okay, two reasons, but I haven’t seen any nondescript girls or boys ducking out the back and giving him flirty eyes. I imagine he's seeking out one very specific guy. 

I cast Craig the most apologetic look I can muster. He just crosses his arms and rolls his eyes as I leap to my feet.

When I glance back, I see him staring openly at Clyde, who’s holding that pretty brunette girl in his arms. They’re doing a slow dance, even though the music is some pounding techno song.

God, school dances are lame.

I walk right up to the exit, but open it as quietly as I can. I don’t want Kyle to know I’m coming. I just want to yell at him for thinking something so stupid. How could he ever think I was-

The first thing I see silhouetted by the moonlight is a couple locked in a passionate embrace against the wall of the gym. The second thing I see is that it’s Kenny and Kyle.

-gay?

 


	6. Your Best Friend Always Sticking Up For You

The cigarette cradled in Kyle’s fingers drops to the cement as his hand goes up to wrap around Kenny’s arm.

I take a step back, wanting nothing more than to dissolve into shadows, like I was never here at all.

Then, to my surprise, Kyle shoves Kenny roughly away, his face red.

“What the hell, dude?” Kyle yelps. Kenny stumbles a few feet back, his blond hair shading his eyes.

“Kyle-“

“No! I don’t know what the fuck you thought you were doing but just- go. Get the hell away from me!”

Kenny stumbles back another foot, just from the force of Kyle’s words.

“Why’re you-“

“Go, Kenny!”

I wince. I don’t even like Kenny, but that’s pretty harsh. I watch his blue eyes blink away something wet.

No fucking way is he crying. Shit.

He turns around and races towards the parking lot. Kyle slumps against the brick wall of the gym, sagging like he’s exhausted. Softly he mutters, “Fuck.”

I watch, like some kind of creepy stalker as he fumbles in his jacket for his cigarette pack. His hands are shaking.

“Dude,” I say into the darkness, walking towards him.

“Stan?” Kyle’s head snaps up, panicked, “What are you- How long have you been standing here? What did you see?”

I could lie. I could tell him I just stepped out for a breather this second, chancing upon him.

I could. But I don’t.

“I saw you and Kenny smush faces, and then you push him away like he grossed you out. Way uncool.”

“Kenny doesn’t gross me out!” Kyle snaps.

“That’s not how it looked,” I inform him, only slightly disappointed.

Kyle hating Kenny would make it that much easier for me to become friends with him again. On the other hand, if Kyle was the type of person who would hate Kenny for something like this, then maybe he wouldn’t be the type of person I’d want to be friends with. It would mean I’d misjudged him all my life.

Don’t get me wrong. Kyle’s never been the most open minded, but he has very well formed opinions about tolerance. Possibly since he’s been on the receiving end of prejudice more often than not.

Then again…I think about my reasons for coming to find him.

“God. Did it?” Kyle wonders, managing to get a cigarette out into the open despite his trembling fingers.

He can’t light it though. His thumb rolls over the metal of his lighter nearly ten times before I pluck it from his fingers and create the tiny flame myself.

Kyle glances up at me, grateful. He mouths _thanks_ before sticking his cigarette into the flame and breathing in deep.

The fire catches, blackening the paper tip of the cigarette, smoke spiraling from its edge.

“D’you mind if I ask what all that was about?” I ask, watching as he sags back against the wall, boneless.

For a second he disappears into the cloud of his smoke exhalation. His voice floats out of it, “I-I’m not really sure. What it was about, I mean. Kenny and I were just talking. He was telling me that I was lucky, because Bebe looks so hot tonight.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” I tell him dryly.

“Oh. She’s…well, she’s Bebe. And then Kenny was joking that I might actually get laid tonight and…he leaned in…God. He must think I’m the biggest asshole in the world.”

“Um. I seriously doubt that,” I say, thinking of the way Kenny always shadows Kyle like some kind of guard dog.

I feel slightly guilty. I’ve known for a while that Kenny felt something for Kyle. He told me at the end of last year that he was going to…let’s see, I believe his exact words were ‘fuck Kyle until he cums screaming my fucking name’. When he told me that I sort of figured that he was half horny, and half screwing around with me just for the hell of it. I mean, the only reason he told me in the first place was to convince me to stop going to Kyle’s basketball games. And yeah, his incredibly devotion to dogging Kyle's heels showed that there was some kind of real affection there too, but. I figured everything I could see, Kyle could see too. 

Besides, Kenny hasn’t mentioned it again since then, other than playing his little mind games all September. Mind games that were obviously invented to piss me off; one of his favorite pastimes. So I thought yeah, maybe he was gay for Kyle, but I didn't think it was...y'know. _Love_. Only, the look on his face just now, that hadn’t been an act.

At least, not with me as the intended audience. I think he honestly feels something deep for Kyle.

I don’t know how that makes _me_ feel. Kind of weird. I can’t figure out why.

“Why are you here, Stan?”

“Oh. Uh. Well, you just ran out of the coffeehouse like the hounds of hell were on your tail, so…I got kind of mad.”

“Sorry,” he says in a quiet voice.

“No, it’s okay. I think I figured out why. Although in light of this new situation…” I trail off, “I wasn’t hitting on you.”

“What?”

“Well, I mean, I’m not sure if I should be bringing this up with what just happened between you and Kenny...”

He stares at me expectantly, so I continue, “You ran off because you thought I was hitting on you, didn’t you? I wanted to tell you that it’s okay, because I’m not gay, Kyle.”

Not like Kenny. Ugh. Now I feel bad. 

“Gay?” Kyle laughs, the boisterous sound jarring a few neighborhood cats out of the bushes lining the building, “No! I- okay, look. You made me feel really guilty when you said you’d been waiting for me. I just…I don’t really like feeling guilty.”

“I know,” I say, because I do know. I should’ve remembered how much Kyle hates being put on the spot. He despises having to ‘fess up to his mistakes, mostly because he’s the type of guy who rarely makes them. Even when we were kids it always took a lot to make Kyle see that he was flawed in any way.

In retrospect, it’s a little weird that I was so fixated on Kyle’s opinion of my sexuality. I try to ignore it.

Kyle shifts from one Converse to another. “I guess you do. Know. And…I was already feeling guilty when I saw that Coffee Blue wasn’t how I thought it was. I-er-I remember that the last fight we had was about that place.”

“You thought it was some secret Goth batcave,” I remind him.

“Right. And I was wrong.”

“You were,” I agree amiably.

“You know that fight is one of the only things I really regret in my life,” Kyle says, so quiet that I almost miss it.

“Me too.”

“Stan, I-“ he pauses. We’re on the brink of something, and he’s about to step over the edge. “Do you think Kenny’s really mad?”

Or not. Damnit. He chickened out. He knows it, too. I can see the shame in his eyes, and it’s not all about pushing Kenny away.

“I think he’ll forgive you if you talk to him.” I bite my lip to keep from saying more.

“I hope so. Kenny’s a really good friend.” His green gaze is distant, far from me.

A good friend. Like I’m not. Like I can never be if things keep going like this.

I have to tell him. I have to tell him how much seeing him tonight means to me. I have to tell him that I’ll always be there for him, even if he flat out rejects me.

“I should go back inside. Bebe’s waiting.” Kyle dashes the cigarette on the asphalt, but he doesn’t squish it with his foot. The butt burns itself out.

“You- ah,” my voice comes out a croak, “You’re right. Shouldn’t keep her waiting.”

Hi, I’m Stan Marsh, and I’m a coward.

I watch Kyle march up to the door. He spares me a long, lingering look before opening the door to the gym.

I want to say something. I don’t.

I guess I’m doomed to be Raven, forevermore.

Or maybe just an emo pussy fag.

I shake my head. No way am I giving up now. Kyle’s too important. I’m going to tell him, and I’m going to tell him tonight. Even if I have to wrench him away from Bebe.

Before I can take a step forward I hear clapping. Then a dry chuckle.

“Good going, Raven. Way to crash,” a cigarette tip emerges from the darkness, embers glowing like the sun, “And burn.”

I turn to see a group of Goths, half in shadow.

Derek’s the one who spoke, but he’s by no means the leader of the group. No, she’s up front, glaring at me with eyes that might as well hold bullets.

“Raven,” she crosses her arms and purses her lips, “We need to talk.”


	7. When I Watch You, Wanna Do You

“Henrietta,” I snarl.

She smiles and simpers, “Haven’t you heard I’ve been looking for you? All. Over.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard. I’ve been avoiding you,” I reply, cocking my head to the side, “But you know that.”

Henrietta rolls her eyes. She’s dressed in some black vinyl corset thing with this midnight blue dress that would look ridiculous on anyone else in this Podunk little town.

On her it looks natural. It must be because she’s the embodiment of Satan.

Did I mention Henrietta is my ex girlfriend? I had a moment of lunacy. A few moments, actually. It took several of Craig’s best patented what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you lectures and several hard elbows to the gut from Clyde every time I so much looked at her cross eyed to break the habit.

Back when I first assumed the name ‘Raven’ again, Henrietta was the goth most intent on drawing me back into her fagtastic clique. Every time I decided my time was better spent with Clyde and Craig, she’d come along, giving me a good hard look atthe way her cleavage spilled out of those tight corsets. So yeah, I had a few instances of weakness. I mean Wendy had just left me. I was a fourteen year old boy. And Henrietta brandishes her sex appeal like a weapon.

Of course, in the end she was just one more domineering ex to add to the list. She’s the one who made me get my lip pierced, because it was ‘totally non-conformist’. I run my tongue over the scar again now, a nervous habit.

I ended up breaking it off with her for good back in junior year. I’d been doing really well before then; Craig had basically banned me from any and all Henrietta interaction through all of sophomore year. She was reduced in my mind to a freshman fling.

Then Clyde threw one of his massive keggers that fall. She came. We got drunk. We hooked up. Again.

The next day I realized I’d fucked up big time, and I told her that I never wanted to see her again. In typical Henrietta fashion she flipped me off, called me a conformist, and stormed out of Clyde’s house.

With my clothes.

I had to go home wearing Clyde’s, which were too short and too baggy.

I steadfastly avoided the bitch ever since.

“What the hell do you want?”

“God, Raven. Stop being such a drama queen,” Henrietta drawls, “It makes you seem more faggoty than usual.”

This from the girl who surrounds herself with goth boys who spend their time whining about the unfairness of the universe. Yeah. And I’m the drama queen.

“Sorry, but don’t really have time to talk,” I inform her, taking a step towards the gym doors. Derek blocks my way. If it wasn’t for him trying to warn me in Coffee Blue earlier, I probably would hit him. As it is, my fingers are twitching into a fist.

“Make time,” Henrietta suggests, “Honey.”

The word ‘honey’ sounds like poison from her mouth.

I don’t know what the fuck she wants. It’s not like they can possibly have some sinister plan; they’re goth kids. The universe’s ultimate pussies. And if they had some sort of super-secret plan, I doubt they’d be trying to clue me into it. I’ve been on the outs with them more often than not.

Still, it doesn’t mean that I like being stuck behind the gym with them. I may be strong, but there’s like, five of them, and I know from experience that they take sadomasochism to a whole new level.

The air feels thin and dangerous, like God’s about to strike us all down with electricity.

Fine. I turn around. “So talk.”

God, for once, is on my side. Just as Henrietta opens her mouth to let loose whatever life changing spiel she’s decided I just have to hear, two drunken idiots stumble out the back doors.

And they’re my two drunken idiots.

“Marsh!” Clyde and Craig cheer in raucous voices, rushing past Derek and engulfing me in a sloppy bear hug.

I’m in a linebacker sandwich. That smells slightly of hops. And okay, Craig doesn’t play football anymore, but he’s still built like he does. Ow.

“Donovan. Tucker,” Henrietta wrinkles her nose in disgust, “Could you leave now?”

Craig ignores her completely, and Clyde whispers conspiratorially, “Dude. Why are you out here with that bitch?”

“I heard that,” Henrietta mutters.

“I was talking to Kyle,” I tell him, not bothering to whisper, “And we have a conversation to resume. Let’s go inside.”

I shoot Henrietta the dirtiest look I can muster. She returns it whole-heartedly. Hmm. I doubt this little convo was about getting back together then.

Of course it is Henrietta, so you never know.

Whatever. Like I care about anything that fat cunt has to say.

Craig and Clyde usher me back inside, my two knights in shining armor. With a flask of Jack.

They offer said flask to me, and I take a couple swigs of liquid courage before muttering, “Thanks guys. You saved my hide. Have you seen Kyle?”

“Have you seen Kyle?” Craig mocks, “How come I get the feeling you only use us for our navigational ability to find a certain redhead, Marsh?”

“Don’t be a dick,” Clyde chides, and it occurs to me that even though their arms are both around my shoulders, they’re actually touching each other more than they’re touching me.

Clyde, ever helpful, points out my target, “Kyle’s over there.”

I see his familiar, skinny frame grinding with Bebe the Bombastic, who seems intent on letting the entire school catch a glimpse of her vagina. Glad she’s not my girlfriend.

“Thanks, dude. You’re a lifesaver.”

“What about me?” Craig demands.

“You’re just kind of douchebag,” I tell him with a grin. I notice that his arm is still touching Clyde’s when I extricate myself. Good for them.

Kyle looks amazing out on the dance floor. Back in third grade someone told him he had no rhythm, and ever since then he’s been doing his best to rectify the situation. In seventh, he had his mom sign him up for dance classes. The rest of us made fun of him like the dickholes we are, called him an assrammer and a fag, but it didn’t matter. Kyle stuck out the classes, and now he’s twisting and winding like the sexiest thing on the floor.

The only thing marring the image is Bebe’s hoochie lap dance grind thing she’s doing. It looks like she might devour him with her breasts and her privates.

While I’m sure Kyle wouldn’t mind that happening, I decide to interfere.

The stench of sweat emanating from the dance floor is strong. So is the smell of liquor, which I suspect my two bozo friends had something to do with.

I brave it out, venturing through the crowd of my hormonal peers, most of whom don’t even notice me. They never do.

I cut past a couple who seems to think the fast paced song pounding through the speakers is perfect slow dancing music, and another who are firmly devoted to attempting to devour each other’s faces. School dances are so gross. I wonder why the chaperones aren’t doing anything to stop the orgy-in-the-making, and then I see that they’re too busy playing a game of strip poker in the far corner. My freshman biology teacher is in her skivvies, which I could have lived my entire life without seeing. I train my eyes on Kyle, certain that I’m going to develop post traumatic stress disorder if I have to take in any other teacher’s pudge mushrooming over the waistbands of their lace panties.

When I reach my goal, I can’t believe how good Kyle looks. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. His clothes are clinging to his form. He’s intense, so into dancing with his girlfriend that it takes me a minute to catch his attention.

I think maybe some of that intensity comes from guilt over what just happened with Kenny. And I sort of hope it doesn’t, because that means Kyle feels more strongly about Kenny than he ever could about me.

Not that I want Kyle to feel anything other than friendship for me. Seriously.

Even though Kyle notices me first, Bebe’s the one who straightens and hisses, “Raven.”

I give her a sardonic smile and say, “Your vag is showing.”

She glances down, intent on fixing her slinky blue dress, which has in fact ridden up to show way too much g-string. I take this as my chance to talk to Kyle, “Dude. I need to tell you something.”

“Something?” Kyle squeaks, ignoring the fact that Bebe is glaring at me hatefully. It’s hard to take her seriously when her cleavage is threatening to spill over at any moment, I guess.

I quirk an eyebrow, “You want me to tell you here?”

“Um,” he spares a glance at Bebe, “No.”

Then he grabs my wrist and pulls me through the crowd. Bebe’s calling after us, but her voice is lost beneath the animalistic pulsing of the music.

We find an empty table in a corner, far from the teachers’ strip poker game and the refreshment table where Cartman has been making short work of any remaining food.

“Okay. So what’s up?” Kyle asks breathlessly, his green eyes wide, “I thought we were cool.”

At first I don’t get what he means. Then a flash of understanding hits me. He thinks I’m going to use the Kenny thing against him. There’s fear in his eyes, and something I don’t recognize too. Like hope, but it vanishes too quickly for me to pinpoint it.

The fear makes me kind of angry, because I thought Kyle knew me better than that.

“I’m not going to talk about Kenny, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I warn. The terror immediately dissolves, but the hope…it’s still swimming in and out of focus.

No one has ever confused me like Kyle has.

“Okay. Then what?”

“I-“ I’m scared to say it, but I’m not a wimp. I’m not going to let my neuroses keep me from the things I want anymore. That’s how this mess got started in the first place. “Kyle, I want to be friends again.”

Sometimes I hate feeling. I hate it so much that I want to dig my fingernails into my stomach, my chest and pull out my insides, just so my emotions will stop being so overwhelming. Right now, I’m so fricking scared that I’m positive my heart’s going to jump straight out of my chest, committing suicide there on the plastic table.

“O-oh. _Oh_ ,” Kyle says, like that wasn’t what he’d expected me to say at all.

Fuck if I know what he did expect. My heart sinks, because this isn’t the reaction I was hoping for.

“So?” I prompt, reaching across the table, even though I know it’s not the brightest thing to do. He’s skittish as one of the calves on Old Man O’Leary’s farm, where I spent my summer working in seventh grade.

I’ve never seen him look so uncertain about anything before. Kyle’s the most unwavering guy I know. Once he makes a resolution, he sticks with it. But now he just looks as puzzled as I feel.

My fingers brush over his wrist. Static jumps between the sleeve of my shirt and his skin, and he pulls back like he’s been burned.

“Okay,” I say, feeling hurt. Fuck. I knew this would happen. This is why I don’t put myself out there, for anything. I stand up, “It was worth a try.”

Even though I don’t think it was. I probably just ruined the few small interactions we did have.

Kyle jumps to his feet, “No, Stan!”

Despite myself, I still love it when he says my name.

“What?” I growl back.

“No, I mean, um, you’re right.”

“I’m…” Right? Does that mean what I think it means?

“We should be friends again,” Kyle says, and swear to God, my heart soars.

He reaches out his hand to shake, and I take it. His palm is warm against mine.


	8. Now I’m Of Consenting Age To Be Forgetting You In A Cabaret

“Holy fuck, are you guys holding hands? Kahl, why the hell are you switching teams for this faggot?”

We were having a moment. It was going great. Until Cartman’s voice shattered it to pieces.

If there really is a god, and he created Cartman, he must be one sadistic bastard.

Kyle’s hand leaves mine so fast I’m surprised he doesn’t sprain his wrist from the backlash.

“Be nice, Eric.”

“Fat chance,” Cartman snapped back, “Why would I be nice to Supergay when he’s so obviously trying to get in your pants? He’s manipulating you, Kahl.”

My cheeks flush red. I’m on my feet before I can check myself, and my fingers are grasping at the collar of Cartman’s sweat stained dress shirt.

“Hey, piggy,” I snarl, “Why don’t you do us all a favor and run along to the grocery store. I bet the cashiers will turn their backs when you decide to OD on Ben and Jerry’s.”

“Stan,” Kyle sighs, “You’re not helping.”

“Aye! Are you calling me fat, bitch?”

I roll my eyes, keeping my grip on his collar tight, “I’m calling you gargantuan.”

“At least I’m not an ass rammer like you, Raven.”

“Stop it!” Kyle jumps up, “Stop it. Stop arguing! Stop saying stuff like that.”

His expression is furious, and the thing is, I know he’s not defending me. He’s defending Kenny. He wants Cartman to stop making fun of gay people because in his mind, the description includes Kenny.

God, sometimes I wonder why I want back in such a fucked up friendship.

Then Kyle smiles at me, and I remember.

“God, Kahl. I was just saying…does somebody have sand in his vagina?”

Well, it’s nice to see that even as close friends, Cartman doesn’t treat Kyle any nicer than he did before.

“No!” Kyle squeaks, the tips of his ears getting red. He’s pissed. He’s definitely pissed.

I’m saved for the second time that night by my best friend Craig.

My best friend Craig who I’m thinking should get his best friend license revoked, because he saves me by saying, “Hey, Marsh. Clyde seems to have something stuck up his ass. Want to go help me dig it out?”

“I told you he was a fag,” Cartman remarks to Kyle, who looks about this close to tackling him and beating him into a pulp.

This Kenny thing has him really shaken up.

“Blow me, Bigfoot,” Craig mutters to Cartman.

The fat boy’s eyes were trained on Kyle in this weird, adoration-and-approval seeking way, waiting for a response to his words. At Craig’s remark, his eyes narrow, and he says, “You’d like that too much, Tucker.”

“I might,” Craig smiles, his eyes dancing. He lives for this sort of juvenile insult game, “If I close my eyes and pretend it’s somebody else.”

Cartman does not enjoy being made a fool. It’s something I try to take advantage of every chance I get.

His eyes narrow further still, and he tries a new tactic, “As if your limp dick is going anywhere near me. Isn’t that your boyfriend, Donovan? He’s over there humping Patty Nelson like a dog in heat. I’d watch it next time you stick it to him; you might get leprosy of the penis.”

Craig takes the bait. He turns towards the dance floor, where sure enough, Clyde and Patty Nelson are engaged in a dance that looks mildly like something you’d see in the zoo, between two wildcats in heat.

I wince. Clyde is Craig’s Kryptonite. No way is this going to end well.

The last time Clyde hooked up with somebody, Craig ended up having a faceoff with the girl and a few of her skanky friends in a parking lot. Which would have been totally fine, except he dragged me into it.

Oh, and then the girls turned out to be some kind of man eating succubi. Just another average day in South Park.

Point is, as much as I’m looking forward to Craig laying the smack down on Cartman’s super sized ass, I’m not looking forward to the Mafioso act I’m positive he’s about to go give Patty Nelson. When he takes a step forward, I grab his arm and hiss, “Let it go, dude. Clyde’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”

All that gets me is a glare that screams ‘traitor’ in capital letters.

“Okay. How about, um-“ I glance around hastily, trying to avoid Craig’s scary eyes, “I’ll be right back.”

I leap to my feet, yanking my hat down lower so that my bangs block half my view. I have more nervous habits that Tweek Tweak, it seems. I make my way over to wear Clyde and Patty Nelson are about to get real nasty. It takes a minute too long for them to realize I’m there, and by then I’ve already seen the sweat pooling in the valley of Patty’s cleavage. It repulses me, but I can’t pinpoint why.

I dismiss it; the girls in our school are all skankified. I’m so over that type. What I need is a sweet girl. Someone who’s smart, and pretty, and takes no bullshit. Someone who doesn’t see the need to slut themselves up to get noticed.

I wonder if we’ve got any girls like that here?

With my luck, probably not.           

“Marsh? What’s up?” Clyde asks, mid thrust in his doggy-style sex dance.

“Hurricane Craig is about to strike,” I warn, “and if you want to keep dancing, you should probably go find that pretty brunette girl you were doing it with before.”

She had a much more Craig-friendly style. Meaning he’s less likely to try to kill her with a machete.

Patty Nelson tells me to wither and die, but I ignore her in favor of waiting for Clyde’s answer.

I guess telling a guy that the girl he’s dancing with isn’t kosher while the girl’s still standing there isn’t a socially appropriate move.

Like I care what the girl who’s practically flashing her tits at me thinks.

Clyde winces. He hates that Craig doesn’t approve of the girls he goes for, but as far as he’s concerned, it’s his life.

“Tell Craig to fuck off,” he says in his nasally voice. Patty Nelson, for reasons I can’t fathom, thinks it’s funny and laughs.

“No. I’m not telling Craig that. He’ll hit me.”

“So? Punch him back,” Clyde shrugs, “Man up, Marsh.”

Yeah. I thought he’d say that.

I sigh and turn to march back towards the table, where Cartman, Craig, and Kyle are engaged in what looks to be a heated argument. Maybe I can just make a run for my car.

Before I have the chance, a pretty girl with blonde highlights sidles up to me.

“Hey, Raven,” she coos.

“Hi, uh,” I squint, trying to recognize her beneath the disco lights of the dance, “Lola.”

Let me explain. Lola has been attending school with me since I was young. In elementary school, she was one of Wendy’s minions. After Wendy and Bebe had a falling out in sixth grade, Lola took the opportunity to usurp my then girlfriend’s power. She took every opportunity she had to try to lure me away from Wendy, but quit shortly after I ‘turned goth’.

Now she writes for the school newspaper and plays a wicked game of lacrosse, but that’s about all I know about her since starting high school. I’m confused as to why she’s talking to me, and I can see her girl gang is too. They’re hanging back with their jock boyfriends, some of whom I know from the football team I was booted from, staring in complete disbelief and she winds her body across me.

One of them, a dark haired girl named Esther, even has the nerve to call, “Lola, what on earth are you doing?”

“Shut up,” Lola snaps back. Esther and the other two take a step back.

I know them from when I dated Wendy. Millie, Esther, and Mandy all used to be part of her entourage.

I think Mandy, who’s a cheerleader, and therefore has to talk to the ex, is still friends with her.

“Hi,” she purrs at me again. I’m puzzled. Am I giving off testosterone pheromones tonight? First Henrietta and now Lola?

“Er- what do you want?” I ask while she runs her claws up and down my chest. They really are claws; painted black and spangled gold.

“Just to talk,” she says, rubbing her free fingers along my arm, “Don’t you want to talk to me?”

I stare at her, hard. Lola used to be kind of pretty. She had this nice brown hair and these dark eyes. But she’s unrecognizable from that girl I knew in elementary; blonde highlights and lowlights combined with light, light blue contacts that make her eyes sparkle like diamonds. Now she's not pretty; she's practically a Barbie doll. Her lips purse.

They’re painted a succulent red brown that’s designed to make guys wonder how they’d look on their cock.

“Actually,” I take a deep breath as she preens, “No.”

“What?”

“You heard me, bitch.”

I walk towards Kyle’s table, leaving her stunned.

Okay, so that was kind of mean. But I have a reputation to uphold, and if I’m nice to one preppy cunt, they’re all going to start thinking they can talk to me. The last thing I need is Wendy deciding she has the right to designate me as part of her Queen Bee Line of Past Lovers entourage. I’m perfectly happy being the guy that she forgot, completely.

I plop down in a seat beside Craig, where I learn the subject of argument is in fact me.

“Raven’s such a fucking wuss, asslicker,” Cartman tells Craig in a snide voice, and then he whines, “Kahl, you’re not seriously going to be friends with him again, are you?”

“Why not?” Kyle shrugs, “Stan’s cool.”

I shoot him a grateful look. He thinks I’m cool. Cool. Me. I can die happy now.

Alright, I’m being a teensy bit dramatic, but so what? That’s how I express the Happy.

Or maybe I’ve been watching too many made for TV teen movies. Either way, I just can’t fight the bubbly feeling in my stomach, which for once isn’t nausea spiking through me.

Kyle smiles, and if anything, I feel even more cheerful. Ha, take that Cartman.

About an hour later, right before I head to my car for the night, Craig turns to me and says, “Dude, the whale’s right. You’ve had a sappy grin on your face all night. Marsh, you really are a fucking wuss.”

Then he turns back to go watch Clyde thrust his hips at Patty Nelson.

What he said may be true, but I think I’m not the only one.

It doesn’t feel as good as it should.

I find Kenny in the parking lot, leaning against my car door.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snarls.

Here’s the thing about Kenny. He’s smart. As in scary smart. But you know when people say ‘that kid’s got potential, but he doesn’t apply himself’? ‘Yale or Jail’? That’s Kenny in a nutshell. He doesn’t study, but he cheats off Kyle where he can and scrapes by. After all, he’s got other things in mind.

Girls…being a sick perv.

Being a sick perv over Kyle.

He’s kind of horrifying; there’s a reason him and Cartman always got along. He hides it well behind that lady killer smile, but he’s the devil.

He looks it too. Right now there’s color in his cheeks, and his lips are so twisted that there’s no mistaking how pissed he is. The lamplight hits his blond hair like old gold, and those sky colored eyes of his are narrowed into slits.

Yeah. The devil in ripped blue jeans.

“I asked you a question, Raven!”

That nickname never seemed as annoying as it does lately.

“I heard you,” I reply, putting on my best I’m-an-asshole-goth-an-you’re-a-pitiful-nonconformist-so-fuck-off monotone.

“Do you plan on answering?” he asks, not at all fooled. I walk around the side of the car. In the old days, Kenny would have fallen in step beside me, exasperation written all over his face, and playfully pried me for an answer.

Now he’s trying his best to pretend we were never friends.

I fumble with my keys, ignoring his angry eyes.

“Stay the fuck away from Kyle, douchebag,” he calls after me as I slide inside the car . I take a note from Craig’s book and flip him off. Then I grin to myself as I gun the ignition.

Whatever you say about being goth, or emo, or whatever you want to label me as, there’s no denying one thing. Making people mad can be fun.

Nothing can bring me down tonight. I got to talk to Kyle. He wants to be friends. And even Kenny pissing all over his territory like some kind of dog can make me frown.

For once it feels like heaven’s on my side.


	9. Now See Time And Time Again, You Got Away With Murder

The natural high I get following the dance vanishes by the next day.

It might have something to do with the fact that my mom, sweet, caring lady that she is, forces me from my bed early on Sunday morning with this jarring reminder, “Stan, don’t be a lazy bum. You’ve got work.”

Sure, she’s glad I’m lightening up my wardrobe. Be that as it may, she’s still my mom. Our relationship has been slightly strained since the whole Raven thing, but it’s not like she walks on eggshells around me when it comes to the little stuff, like reminding me to eat my vegetables or waking me up for any pressing events. Like school, which I like to call prison. Or the place that might better be referred to as hell, meaning work.

My job. God. What is there to say about my job?

I’ve worked at Harbucks since last year, when dad decided that if I was going to have a car, I’d have to pay for the insurance on my own. It would teach me some responsibility, he claimed.

So far it’s only taught me to make cappuccinos, but whatever.

I throw on my tight black t-shirt with the red Harbucks logo emblazoned in one corner and loose, worn jeans. No sense getting my good denim stained with caramel and chocolate sauce, which will inevitably spill on me at some point during the day.

It never fails.

Mom slips me a piece of toast, buttered and smothered in jam before I leave. I kiss her on the cheek, just happy that she’s smiling.

Don’t get me wrong. As a family, we’re mostly content, and my fall from grace as the idyllic son didn’t do much to disrupt our status quo. Sure, it caused its fair share of strife, but for the most part, my parents like to let me make my own mistakes.

They also like to whine and bitch about it when I do, but they let me do what I want. I guess I'm jaded; maybe when you spend most of your time content, it’s hard to remember what it’s like to be well and truly happy, or some bullshit like that.

I think that’s what happens to mom sometimes. She starts going through the motions and forgetting why and how to smile.

All it takes is the littlest thing to break that cycle, though; like a simple kiss from her son.

The drive to work is so short that it’s laughable I even bother driving. I hop out of my car with considerably less energy than I had during my wakeup routine, which was mostly for show.

I’m just not a morning person. Never have been. If I had things my way, I’d sleep ‘til three, every single day.

Inside the shop, it’s dead. The only other person there is Christophe DeLorne. I’ve been casually acquainted with Christophe since I was a kid. It’s only been within the past year of working that I’ve gotten to know him as, dare I say it, a friend.

He’s kind of a strange dude. When I first met him, he fancied himself some kind of mercenary. We all had pretty colorful imaginations back then. Now, Christophe is sort of a quiet guy. He’s not shy; it would be an affront to even call him that. He just likes to keep to himself.

I’ve heard tell that he lives on his own, and that his mother up and moved away, which is something I can sort of empathize with. My parents have never left for good, but they’ve attempted it on several occasions. As such, I try not to ask him about it. There’s no reason to rub salt in the wound, or worse, to be asking stupid questions based on assumptions that Christophe never told me to make.

Well, there’s that and…I’ll admit it. Under that Harbucks uniform, he’s all muscle. I’m not scared of him or anything, but I’m not going to goad him into a fight, either.

Anyway, point is, he and I have gotten sort of friendly. Sometimes he swings by Coffee Blue.

The first time I took him, he put up a real struggle, which I didn’t understand, as he dresses all in black most of the time and fits right in. I remember he was calling me all sorts of names that would make Cartman green with envy.

I don’t know what changed his mind, but since that trip, he’s gone back with me a couple of times. He seems to really enjoy talking to this one barista with a British accent. I overheard once. Christophe was telling him how annoying it was when the hot foam from the cappuccino machine sloshed all over his clothes.

Real scintillating conversation, that.

He glances up at me and does this two finger salute before returning to counting the cash in the register. He’s already got his hideous red and mustard yellow apron on, and I can see he has all the equipment up and running. That leaves me absolutely nothing to do for the next five minutes, until we’re officially open and the first customer arrives.

Being the only coffee house in town other than the late night Coffee Blue, we get plenty of business. So much, in fact, that I barely get a moment to breathe until around mid-afternoon, when the breakfast and lunch crowds taper off.

Christophe’s disappeared, presumably to smoke, which he does with the same sort of consistency as a chimney.

It’s this moment that a familiar face walks in, and not one I’m particularly happy to see. Here she is, in all her glory; glossy black hair, dangerous curves, and a killer smile. Which, for the first time in ages, is directed at me.

“Raven!” she cheers, prancing up to the register like some kind of prized filly.

“Um. Yeah?” I say, because the boss doesn’t appreciate it when we’re rude to customers, and I’m pretty sure he screens our security tapes to check.

“How are you?”

“Peachy keen and dandy,” I reply, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. This bright and shiny friends act doesn’t fool me for a second. I dated Wendy Testaburger long enough to know when she wants something.

“Good, good,” Wendy nods as though I’ve just told her something incredibly exciting, her eyes sparkling.

“Yeah. What do you- I mean, what can I get you?”

“Can I get a venti caramel macchiato skim, double cup?”

“Right,” I tell her how much it costs, take her money, and then do my absolute best to ignore her while making the coffee. To the outside observer, the way I treat Wendy might be kind of harsh. The outside observer, of course, doesn’t know that she’s been a major contributing factor as to why my high school life closely resembles hell.

“So…” Wendy kind of trails off, and I can tell she’s at a loss at how exactly to start a conversation with me. I’m not planning on making it any easier, because frankly, I don’t want to talk to the Mega-Bitch Monster. I let her flail and fumble for words.

Finally she says, “Who are you going to homecoming with?”

Wow. That was so not what I expected.

“I’m not going to homecoming,” I tell her.

She gasps, “You have to!”

“I don’t have to do anything,” I shake my head, handing her the coffee I just made and fully intending to end this little chat right here and now.

Instead she nods vigorously, sets down the coffee, and screeches, “You do!”

“Um. Why?”

“Don’t you even listen to the school wide announcements?”

Strange question to ask. In fact, I don’t.

“They made it official last Wednesday,” Wendy explains, a manic glint in her eye, “You’re the only nominee for homecoming king!”

Blink. Snort. Repeat.

 "You’re looped.”

“I’m not,” Wendy insists, reaching across the counter to grab my arm. I shake her off easily.

“There is no way that anyone voted for me,” I say in a harsh voice, “For anything.”

“Except they did,” Wendy nearly shouts, “They announced it on Wednesday. Weren’t you listening?”

Oops. I skipped class on Wednesday with Clyde and Craig. We went to the park and had a water balloon fight.

“Um. No.”

“You don’t even know what this means to me, do you?” Wendy asks, annoyed once again by my complete lack of interest in anything that has to do with her.

“Not a clue,” I reply glibly.

I don’t add that I’d be happy to keep it this way, for fear the boss man might decide this constitutes customer dissatisfaction. I mean, she already has her damned coffee. What else does she want from my life?

“I’m one of the nominees for queen.”

“Okay.”

“But as king, you have a vote that counts for more than any of the others.”

“Still not following.”

“You have to vote for me!” she shrieks.

I arch an eyebrow. Wendy may be a bitch, but she’s too smart to go in for all this rah rah school spirit shit, “I wasn’t aware homecoming was such a big deal to you.”

“It’s not,” she waves the notion away, “But for the past twenty years running, whoever is voted homecoming queen is inevitably voted Snow Queen at the winter dance!”

“Um. Right.” I’m still not getting it. Girls speak in code, I swear.

“God, Raven. You don’t understand,” Wendy sneers, her pretty face twisting, “I have to be Snow Queen. If I’m not, no college will accept me!”

I roll my eyes, “Sure, Wends. You have a 3.9 GPA, and being crowned Queen of some dumb little dance is going to determine your entrance into the Ivies.”

“This is why no one likes you, Stan,” she says my name for the first time in ages, “Because you’re such a sarcastic asshole. Why Donovan and Tucker stay friends with you is beyond me.”

“They have an appreciation for subtle wit?” I suggest, still shocked that she said my name. She must be trying to wiggle into my good graces.

“Well, somebody must, because I sure as fuck didn’t vote for you,” Wendy sneers, “But never mind that modern miracle. I swear to God, Raven, if you don’t pick me, I’ll chop off your balls and force feed them to you.”

“Wow. That’s the sweetest proposition I’ve gotten today,” I inform her, beginning to get beyond fed up. Why should I care about some stupid ass dance?

“It was nice talking to you Wends,” I continue, ignoring her snarl, “But I think it’s time you leave.”

“You can’t kick me out,” she snaps, and I guess she realizes that going banshee on me isn’t exactly endearing. The transformation from she-beast to sweetness and light occurs in the blink of an eye.

“Come on, Stan,” she purrs, leaning across the counter again, and even though I’m backing far, far away, trying to meld with the espresso machine, her French manicured nails still manage to grab hold of my ghastly apron. She yanks me forward so that I have no choice but to stare into her liquid brown eyes, which even after all these years, are still kind of magnetizing, “If I get to be Queen, I’ll be your date. Don’t you want to take me to the dance?”

Hypnotic or not, I pull away, “I don’t dance.”

Wendy crosses her arms and gives me a probing look. I haven’t gotten this much attention from her since we used to spend nights sticking our tongues down each other’s throats.

“Are you being difficult because you genuinely don’t like me, or are you acting this way because you have no pep?”

Pep? Really? Who the hell says pep anymore, other than my grandmom?

“If I say I really don’t like you, will you go away?” I ask, but my heart’s not in it. I don’t like Wendy, much, but I guess there’s still that annoying part of me that cares for her. She’s always going to be my first girlfriend, you know?

Her face falls at my comment, but she resolutely replies, “Not a chance in hell, mister.”

I sigh, “Who’s the competition?”

“Why does it matter?” Wendy retorts, her eyes widening. She thinks she’s cracking me.

“It just does.”

“Lola, Bebe, Mandy, and some fat bitch. I don’t remember her name.”

Lola. Well, I guess that explains her sudden interest in me last night at the dance. I’ll have to be on the lookout for crazed homecoming queen wannabes and their groupies from now on.

There is no doubt in my mind that the vote that’s made me king was completely and totally rigged. I have an idea about who might have done it, as well.

“You better find out,” I warn, “I might be friends with her.”

“Please, Raven. You haven’t got any friends other than Clyde and Craig.”

For reasons I can’t comprehend, this makes me laugh, “And Kyle.”

“Kyle Broflovski? He hates you.”

It’s like a punch to the stomach, hearing that.

“No he doesn’t,” I rejoin, “We settled our differences and all that.”

“Great. Just what our schools needs,” Wendy mutters, “More ‘mos.”

“You know, if you want me to vote for you for homecoming, you might want to reconsider that attitude.”

“You mean you’re thinking about it?” Wendy’s brown eyes light up, and I think it’s the first time I’ve seen her really smile while I’m in the vicinity. It makes me remember everything I used to like about her before she began climbing the rungs of popularity and left me coughing on her wake.

“I’m going to think about it,” I concede. I know I’m going to live to regret it, but I don’t have time to go back on my offer. At that exact moment, my cell buzzes in my pocket.

I fish it out and read the caller ID.


	10. We're The Color Of Insanity

“I need to talk to you,” Kyle’s voice is tinny through the cell, but his tone is enough to make me drop this whole screwy conversation with Wendy, tell Christophe that I have an emergency, and race off at the speed of light.

We’ve only been friends again for a day, and already I’m treating his calls like they’re life or death.

I hope Craig doesn’t find out. I usually take hours to respond to him.

Kyle’s sitting on a bench at Stark’s Pond. Even though September is slowly creeping into an unseasonably warm October, there are still spotty patches of snow on the ground. This is South Park, after all.

The second I climb out of my car, I’m watching him, and I don’t know why. His hair is the same red-gold color the leaves are turning. He’s watching the pond. Tiny white caps are forming on the miniature waves being stirred up by the wind. They wash up on the banks along with broken beer bottles and syringes.

Our town used to be pristine; beautiful. That’s the way it is in my memories, when the entire world was my playground, and Kyle and I used to rule like kings.

Now I think South Park’s been corrupted from the inside out. The people living here used to be just plain stupid. Then Sundance came, and a myriad of other insane, unbelievable events. This place has always been magical that way. But after the film festival and everything, we became more than a town.

We’re on the map, now.

I’ve heard Clyde Donovan’s dad keeps a framed copy of an old county map, one where the words South Park never even show up. Everyone spends all their time wishing we could go back to being insignificant, and I’m the same. Being Raven has made me stick out in a way that Stan Marsh never did. I’m not just another jock; I’m a school wide target. Lucky I can fend for myself.

Lucky I’ve finally got Kyle back. Kind of. No use trying to smother our newfound friendship before it even takes off.

My boots crunch through the frost, squishing the still soft grass beneath it. Soon enough the ground will be frozen and hard. We’ve never had an ice-free Halloween to date.

I stop, watching my friend. There’s something tragic about his stance; half-turned away, but his shoulders squared. It’s like he’s steeled for a blow he can’t see, but he knows is coming.

It’s then I realize I’m bordering on psycho-stalker and shake myself out of my Kyle-induced reverie. Stomping through the snow, I yell, “Dude!”

He turns towards me, and his emerald eyes are startled.

He has gorgeous eyes. Like he can see everything, like he can see through everything. I hadn’t realized how much I missed him looking at me with them.

Then again, I missed everything about him.

Okay. Gay. Not what I meant. I just was implying that a friend like Kyle comes along once in a lifetime, alright?

“Hi,” Kyle waves, his fingers red and white and blotchy with cold.

“Hey,” I nod, trying to do that cool-guy thing that Craig does, where he acts like he doesn’t actually give a shit.

“Sorry to call you out like this. I didn’t realize you had work,” he confesses, “I don’t even think I know where you work.”

I take a seat beside him, “Harbucks.”

His eyes widen slightly, and he queries, “What the hell is it with you and the coffee shops man?”

It takes me a second to grasp his meaning, but when I do, I laugh, “I’ve got a thing for sugar and caffeine. And come on, Coffee Blue isn’t just a coffee shop.”

Kyle rolls his eyes, “Yeah, yeah. It’s a garden of magic, or whatever.”

I snort, “Well, there’s that.”

His head lolls back on his neck, like he’s trying to glimpse the sky though the still thick foliage over the pond, “So.”

“So,” I prompt. Being with him feels warm. Familiar. Like we’ve sat here a million times before, and I guess we have. We just haven’t done it in a long, long while.

“This feels weird, doesn’t it?” Kyle asks, and now his eyes are studiously watching his fingers pick at a hole in his jeans.

I’m surprised his mom hasn’t thrown them out yet. Last I checked, Sheila Broflovski was pretty much in charge of her son’s wardrobe. Then again, I haven’t seen him wear dorky plaid button downs and khakis since eighth grade, so I guess I’m not really a reliable source any more.

“Not that weird,” I reply, cautious that he might bolt at any minute. I hate having to be so careful with him. He’s not some fragile doll. He’s a guy. I’m a guy. Can’t we just act like…guys?

“Oh,” he seems let down for some reason. It’s as if he wanted to know that my nerves are every bit as unsteady as his.

He should know better. If I’d comforted him that way, it would have felt more like we were on a date or something. All this coquettish eye lowering and awkward silence is better reserved for chicks, in my opinion.

“Dude, get on with it,” I sigh, trying to catch his eye. I know that the bumper of my car isn’t nearly as interesting as all his staring makes it seem.

“What?” he asks, surprised. I decide to give up on being polite. He’s known me for seventeen years, and been my best friend for fourteen of them. Maybe I’m rushing things, but…If he’s decided to be my friend again, my lack of subtle tact must not be a decisive factor in that choice. At least, I hope not, because what I say next could make for a deal breaker.

“Come off it. You have something on your mind, and while I’d like to think my very presence is making you all jumpy like that, I seriously doubt I have that effect on you.”

He visibly relaxes. It’s like the tension drains from every inch of his body. Now he’s looking at me with those incredibly clear eyes, but even now, I can’t read them. The days where he was an open book to me are gone.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

“It’s been known to happen,” I reply with a wry grin. It’s a miracle. He hasn’t walked away yet.

Kyle snorts, “Rarely.”

“Hey!” I exclaim, reaching out and pushing him with one hand. His shoulder is hard through the nylon of his jacket.

“Hey yourself!” he pushes me right back. I kick snow up onto the bench, and it settles on his leg; a growing damp spot. He does the same. Soon our hands get involved. We’re flinging snowballs like Stark’s Pond is the Wild West and we’re at the O.K. Corral.

I score the winning shot with a massive snowball that splatters not only all over those delicious red curls, but spills half down his back. Yet despite my epic snow slinging prowess, he doesn’t give up. Green eyes blazing, Kyle tackles me full onto the ground, his soaking jean clad legs straddling my hips.

“Give up!” he pants.

“Never,” I retort, grasping for snow with my numb fingers. All I scrape up is dirt. For the first time, I wish winter had come more quickly.

“Do it,” Kyle brings one of his knees uncomfortably close to my crotch, but the threat isn’t working. He’s got more dignity than to crush a man’s balls. I hope.

“Nuh unh,” I answer childishly, finally touching something cold. Betting that its dirt laced with snowflakes, I throw it in his face. Bull’s-eye. Right on target.

He sucker punches me in the stomach, but it barely hurts. Thank God I’ve kept up with football practices with Clyde and Craig. Kyle’s got all those basketball muscles, and that hit could have stolen my breath if he’d meant it. But he doesn’t mean it, evidenced by the fact that he rolls back to sit on my ankles, cracking up.

“Sweet Abraham,” he laughs, “I think you,” cackles, “got fucking,” snickers, “dirt in my eye, asshole!”

I’m laughing too. I haven’t had a snowball fight in ages. Totally worth it, dude.

“Pssh,” I kick him lightly in the side until he collapses on top of me. “Suck it up.”

We must lay there on the cold grass and dirt and snow for at least ten minutes. He’s still on top of me, his sneakers on either side of my face, now, legs stretched out. We’re wet, freezing, and suffering bouts of hysterical chortling that is probably scaring away anyone who thought Stark’s might be a good hangout spot for the day.

I don’t care.

I’m ecstatic, and it’s embarrassing how happy I am at this moment. I don’t want to move. Ever.

When Kyle’s breathing calms, I feel him still on top of me. Straining to lift my head up, because that’s the only mobility I have with his ass sitting on my stomach, his legs holding down my shoulders, and his arms pinning my knees, I ask, “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong now, or do I have to kick your ass again?”

“I won that fight,” he replies, but the cheer’s all gone.

“We’ll do a rematch some other time,” I strain to keep my head up, but all I can see is the bottom of his chin from this angle, so I set it back on the grass. The sky is patchwork; blue, white, blue, gray, blue.

“Okay,” he replies, and I can tell he’s building up to whatever it is he called about, “I guess I called you because…well, I can’t tell anyone else.”

My hopes rise. He’s chosen me to confide in? Above Cartman? Above Kenny?

“Spill,” I command, watching a bit of cumulus that looks vaguely like a bunny rabbit pass by.

“It’s about the other night. You know. Kenny,” he says by way of explanation.

Oh. Guess choosing me to talk to wasn’t actually a choice after all. No way could he tell Cartman; the fatass would rip on him til kingdom come. And I doubt Kenny is up for listening to Kyle’s careful analysis of why anything between them would be a bad idea.

He does think it’s a bad idea.

Right?

“Um, yeah, man. I know what you’re talking about,” I bite my lip, trying not to feel like too much of a pussy for being let down.

“Here’s the thing. Kenny’s one of my best friends. I mean, he’s really one of the only people I talk to, other than Eric.”

Why anyone would want to talk to Cartman about anything is completely beyond my faculties of understanding.

“And when he kissed me, it was…I don’t know. Awkward. Terrible. Uncomfortable…”

“Repulsive?” I suggest.

“No!” I think he’s offended that I even say it. His whole body stiffens, like he’s about to get up and whale on me for dissing Kenny McCormick. I place a hand on his knee to tell him I didn’t mean it. Kyle relaxes into the touch and sighs, “You would think that. Getting kissed by a guy is supposed to be…well, it’s supposed to be gross.”

I don’t like where this is going one bit.

“And it wasn’t?” I blink, blocking out bunny shaped clouds and blue skies, because I have to brace myself for the worst. Except I don’t really know why hearing that Kyle liked kissing Kenny would be the worst thing. My mind is fuzzy; muddled.

“No. I guess not,” Kyle says softly.

I feel trapped and uncomfortable, like when someone is about to take a picture and tells you to make funny faces. Truth be told, I’m not really a funny face kind of guy.

“Kyle,” I say, because what else is there to really say? I don’t want to sound like some kind of Hallmark card, and I don’t want to come off as a total douche, either.

But what he’s saying unsettles me. I don’t like it. At all.

I feel like a jerk, because I don’t know if I don’t like the idea of Kyle and Kenny for some unfathomable reason, if I don’t like it because I don’t want Kyle to give into his homo side, or if I just don’t like how he refers to Kenny as ‘one of his best friends’.

No matter what the reason, it makes me ache in a way that I won’t; can’t understand.

"I know it’s stupid,” he begins to move again, but I keep my hand on his knee, and he stops shifting.

“It’s not stupid, dude. Do you like Kenny?”

“Of course. He’s my friend.”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” I respond in my strictest voice, “Do you like him more than you like Bebe?”

“No. I mean, I don’t jerk off to him at night or anything. The only stars of my wet dreams are girls,” he answers firmly.

“Then that’s your answer.”

“That’s not an answer! Kenny won’t even talk to me right now! I’ve been calling him all morning!”

“It just happened last night, dude. Maybe he needs space, or whatever. Why don’t you wait until Monday at school to talk to him?”

“I haven’t gone a day without talking to Ken in four years.”

“Yeah, well,” I can’t keep the bitterness out of my voice, but I stop myself from ending the sentence. I think he knows what I’m implying.

Before freshman year, he hadn’t gone a day without talking to me, either. 

Instead I force myself to mutter, “You’ll do fine.”

He sits up, and this time I can’t stop him. The way he’s looking at me now makes me wish I never laid eyes on Kyle Broflovski.

He’s staring at me like I broke his heart.

I can’t figure out if it’s because he has to wait to talk to Kenny, or because he waited so long to talk to me.

“Look,” I say, anything to keep him from staring at me like that, “Wait until tomorrow, and then tell him that you want him to stay as your friend, but that you just don’t feel that way about him. It’ll work out.” I force a grin, “I promise.”

He blinks, and the moment passes. I can tell he’s thinking over what I just said, because he finally nods and murmurs, “I need something to take my mind off this.”

“You do that.”

He’s looking at me again, but in a good way. His voice turns jokey, “I know I dragged you out of work, and what with that whole coffee fetish you’ve got it must be terrible, but what are you doing tonight?”

“I believe,” I pretend to check an imaginary schedule, “I’m going to the movies with you, dude.”

“Blade of Terror 53 is out.”

“I was about to suggest the same thing,” I grin.

Just like that, we’re okay again. Even if it’s just for a little while.          


	11. ‘Cause The Daylight Seems To Want You

The thing you have to get about my mom is that when I was born, she wasn’t sure how to be a mother. She didn’t understand the concept of playgroups and birthday parties, and that the way she would act would affect my invitations to said events.

The other mothers saw her as some kind of tarted up slut; and that reflected badly on my young social life. Until Kyle, that is.

I think she’s always felt kind of bad about that, when it comes to both me and my older sister.

So when Shelley comes home to visit from college late Sunday night, not only does my mom welcome her with open arms and no suspicions at all, but she makes sure to cater to her every whim.

My sister’s a total bitch, and so of course her whims include removing all the guy shampoo and conditioner from the bathroom and replacing them all with her shit.

This would be fine, except when I’m showering Monday morning, the only bottles I can find are marked Grapefruit Passion. On top of that, the soap is something like Pomegranate Martini (with sparkles). So not only do I get to drive to school smelling like some kind of tropical fruit, but I’m pretty sure I’m shimmery.

Fucking sisters. Can’t live with them, and can’t murder them without raising too many questions.

Although I’d bet my pitiful GPA that in this town I could get away with it.

Actually, that’s probably not true. Cartman, of all people, shares some sort of twisted kinship with Shelley that I don’t even begin to want to understand. He’d probably ruthlessly hunt for her murderer out of some sick show of solitude.

When I get to school, the first thing I do is track down the perpetrators of this whole homecoming king fiasco.

I find them exactly where I knew they’d be. Detention. Again.

I stalk in, ignoring the teacher inside, and smack them both upside the head. Hard.

“You assholes!”

“Ow! Fuck, Marsh. Nice to see you too,” Craig mutters, glaring balefully up at me. If looks could kill, his dark eyes might have fried me nine times over by now.

“W-what was that for?” Clyde pouts, not sure whether to deck me or to cry. He is such a baby sometimes.

Craig doesn’t even wait for an explanation. He just buries his head in a book and chooses to ignore me.

On the other hand, Clyde’s still gazing at me with big, watery doe eyes, waiting for an explanation.

I grit my teeth, “Why exactly am I the only nominee for homecoming king?”

Clyde’s eyes widen, “Oops. You found out?”

“Wendy told me,” I confirm.

Craig, despite staring at his book like it’s the most interesting thing in the world, which I seriously doubt, since it looks like some kind of chemistry text book, runs a hand through his thick dark hair and says, “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, man.”

“We fixed the vote so you’d become king,” Clyde informs me, apparently deciding I didn’t hit him that hard and pasting on a smile, “We got rid of all the real ballots and replaced them with your name.”

“How’d you work that out?”

“Craig charmed Mandy, the girl in charge of the box,” Clyde tugs at a piece of Craig’s hair, but he just huffs and swats him away. “It was hi-larious,” Clyde cheers, “We were wondering how long it would take for you to catch on.”

“Yeah. Goddamned Testa-bitch ruined all our fun,” Craig mutters, paging through his text book in search of some sort of chemical equation.

“I don’t think they give you bomb recipes in there,” I tell him.

He waves me off, “Fuck what you think. I’ve already figured out how to make ketamine and stink bombs from this book.”

“I thought you learned how to do that from third grade,” I shoot back. He gives me a dark look and returns to his text. He’s been in a sour mood ever since the dance.

I know this because I made the mistake of attempting to call him last night after hanging out with Kyle. I guess Clyde got a little hook up action, and it’s made talking to Craig crap until his favorite brunet decides to stop bragging about it.

I have to wonder if Clyde knows he’s torturing our friend, or if it’s completely innocent. I mean, it’s Clyde, so you never know.

“Whatever,” Craig snorts, flashing me the finger.

“So are you going to tell me why you two dickholes decided I’d look good with a crown?”

“You needed to loosen up,” Clyde replies at the same time as Craig says, “We’re fucking with the system. It’s what we do.”

“O-kay,” I nod, acting like I understand their mixed answers. Honestly, they pull a fucking prank every single day. I should have expected I’d be at the receiving end sometime.

Craig finally looks up and sniffs the air, “Why do you smell like a fucking Piña Colada?”

I shrug, “Shelley’s back. Why are you in detention?”

“Burned the Vice’s toupee.”

“Nice.” 

* * *

 

A week passes. I get to spend time with Kyle twice outside of school; once at Coffee Blue, for real this time, and once at the park where we play a vigorous game of basketball. I get my ass kicked.

I don’t go out of my way to see him, though, because I’m trying to do that thing where I’m understanding and considerate.

It’s killing me.

I do make the effort to sit closer to his table at lunch. Craig and Clyde question the move from our usual comfortable corner, but mostly they just call me a fag and get over it.

I haven’t asked Kyle what happened with Kenny, but I’m guessing it hasn’t gone well. The blond’s been conspicuously absent during Kyle’s cigarette breaks, which I crash from time to time. He still sits with the group in the cafeteria, but he’s been moping like crazy.

For instance, on Thursday I watch as Cartman insults him ruthlessly, poking and prodding him all the while.

First this: “What happened, Kenneh? Did your mom run out of pop tarts?”

Punch in the ribs.

And then: “Kenneh, Kenneh, what’s it like having sex with your brother?”

Kick in the shin.

And finally: “God, Kenneh. I know you’re a horny slut, but I just found out your mom is one crazy bitch in bed.”

“Cum waffle,” is Kenny’s only reply, and it might’ve been funny if his tone wasn’t so morose. I remember back when we were all friends, Kenny used to be cheerful. Vibrant. Alive.

As time’s gone by he only seems to get angrier. I’ve always thought that maybe it’s because my view of him has gotten slowly darker with every passing day, during which he treats me like a total asshole. Now I’m starting to think maybe my hatred hasn’t colored my vision. Maybe he really has become…well, an emo pussy fag. If he treats everyone the way he treats me, like he’s pissed off at the entire world, then he deserves the title of ‘Raven’ more than I ever have.

Well, excusing that whole elementary school incident.

I’m being kind of harsh, though. If Kyle hasn’t talked to him yet, which I’m positive he hasn’t, he must be going through a hard time.

“Po’boy, you’re pathetic,” Cartman sneers in typical Cartman-esque fashion. It’s sad. Cartman’s got half a brain and is a master of manipulation, but he was really much more frightening back when we were nine. At least then his whiney-bitch ass voice was acceptable.

Now that he’s nearly eighteen, walking around sounding like someone’s punched him in the ‘nads is considerably less intimidating.

In response, Kenny gives him a feeble middle finger and sinks his head down into his arms.

He’s pining over Kyle. It’s pathetic.

It’s also the one thing I understand completely. 

* * *

 

I’m on my way out of school Friday afternoon to meet Kyle for that game of basketball that I’m about to get my ass royally kicked in when I see Derek. His hair’s getting long, and he’s tied it back into this nub of a ponytail that looks better than all those stupid styled spikes he likes to wear.

I never noticed before, but hey, he’s kind of attractive for a guy. Not that I’m noticing, or anything. That would be ridiculous.

“Raven, Henrietta wants to talk to you,” he sidles up to me, placing his hand on my shoulder. It’s warm and damp, and the touch makes me want to draw away.

“So I’ve heard,” I snap.

“Come on now. You’re going to give yourself an ulcer with all that rage,” he purrs, his hand moving down my shoulder to my elbow.

His skin’s a pale contrast to my fading summer tan. He guides me towards a classroom, and I reluctantly follow.

Henrietta’s there, of course. She’s seated on top of a teacher’s desk like it’s a throne. Her other minion, Georgie, is artfully sketching a skeleton on the chalkboard. Its gruesome leer reminds me of who these people are. What they think life is about.

Misery loves company, and with Henrietta, it’s never been truer. She preys on peoples’ insecurities. She blows things massively out of proportion, turning small hurts into gaping wounds. It’s like she can’t be happy unless you’re ready to cut your eyes out with razor blades.

“Raven,” she hums, “Come to grovel?”

“Your lackey dragged me here,” I mutter back. Derek chuckles behind me because he knows I wasn’t exactly kicking and screaming as I came.

All I want is for him to release my elbow. I breathe a sigh of relief when he does.

“I’m sick of this cat and mouse game, Raven. Your running from me was quaint at first, but-“

“I wasn’t running.”

“Excuse me?”

“I wasn’t running. I was ignoring you.”

“That’s running,” Henrietta protests, shifting so that her glossy vinyl corset catches some of the dim light streaming through the windows.

She fancies herself some kind of princess of darkness, but really, she’s just a diva.

I roll my eyes, “Not really. Running implies I’m scared of you.”

“You’re not?” Henrietta raises one perfect black eyebrow. She takes forever to stencil those things on, but trust me; you never want to see her go without.

“No,” I scoff, “What’s there to be scared of?”

“I’m plenty scary!”

“Um. Right. Could we get on with it now?”

Henrietta’s lips purse. She’s wearing the same lipstick that Georgie and Derek have on, and it makes her teeth look yellow when she finally decides to talk, “I’m certain you’ve been wondering what I’ve been tracking you down for. Your lack of cooperation has been frustrating. There’s no need to pussy foot around just because we used to partake in each other’s bodies.”

I cringe, “Please, please, please don’t ever remind me.”

She scowls, offended, but continues, “Raven, what I’m offering you is a chance to assist in a life-changing event. We’re going to upset the entire flock of sheep that this hellhole consists of. We’re going to revolutionize non-conformism.”

“I’m not following,” I yawn. God, she likes to hear herself talk.

“I’m saying, Raven, that you are going to elect me Queen of Homecoming,” she announces with grandeur, flourishing her hands for emphasis.

Well. That’s certainly not what I expected.

“You’re shitting me,” I stare at her in complete shock. Her face turns red with rage.

“No, Raven,” she gripes, “Seriously. I want to be homecoming queen.”

“But…why?” I ask, unable to comprehend what the hell’s going on.

Henrietta. As some kind of prom queen, “It’s so…conformist.”

“No!” she declares passionately, “It’s the opposite. It’s going to fuck up their whole Justin-and-Britney worldview!”

This is oddly reminiscent of Craig’s fight the man speech.

“Um. Are you sure you don’t just want a tiara?”

“No! The only crown I want is the blissful shroud of death.”

“Um. Kay,” I roll my eyes, used to her dramatics and habit of quoting crappy poetry at me. I swear, if she didn’t have a nice rack, I’d have no idea how I put up with her for all that time, “But you’ve been trying to talk to me for weeks. They only announced the homecoming thing recently.”

“You thought I was trying to get back together with you, didn’t you? Pitiful,” she laughs scornfully, and I hide a blush, because yeah. That’s exactly what I thought.

And maybe I’d done a little running because of it.

“I heard your conformist friends talking about rigging the ballots a few weeks back. I realized what it meant and knew I had to get you in on it.”

Lucky for her, she didn’t talk to me. I would have squashed all of Craig and Clyde’s fun right then and there.

“How nice for you,” I drawl, bored with this conversation already, “What does it mean?”

“It means that you’ll choose me, and then I’m going to be Snow Queen. Can you imagine the dismay, the looks of utter hopelessness of all those blonde Abercrombie poseurs? I live to wreak havoc in the unjust system that chains me down. Together you and I will weed out the rot and corrupt social slaughterhouse they’ve penned us in!”

I think I can translate that.

“So basically...you _do_ want to get back together.”

“How else will my rise to the top be believable enough to trick their disillusioned minds, Raven? Get with the program.”

“So,” I think about it and repeat, “You want to get back together.”

“God! Yes. Obviously,” Henrietta jumps off the desk and runs her claws up my arm, her tongue ring glinting as she licks her lips seductively.

“Um. Let me think about it,” I pull my arm away, “No.”

“Raven!”

“No,” I turn around and walk away.

It’s a useful tactic; one I learned from my good friend Craig a long, long time ago in Peru.

Long story.

“You have to help me disrupt the social hierarchy in this nest of Britney-worshipping vipers!”

“No,” I call over my shoulder. Derek’s still guarding the door, but he catches my eye and winks, letting me pass.

“Smooth move, Raven,” he says, and I swear to god his hand grazes my ass.

I have no idea what that’s about.

Better not to think about it.


	12. I’m Hot Boy, I’m Burnin’ Up

“Did you see?” Clyde asks, hanging onto the back of my wool coat and jumping up and down like a puppy dog.

“Did I see what?” I ask coolly, trying not to be amused by his antics. There’s only so much cheer I can take early in the morning.

“Mandy asked me out! To the homecoming dance!”

“Mandy, like the cheerleader, Mandy?”

“Yes!” Clyde crows, throwing his hands up in the air and doing a shameless happy dance.

“What are you so excited for? You’re a football player. Getting dates should be easy for you. And homecoming’s still half a month away,” I inform him.

Clyde always gets this way when it comes to girls. He acts like he doesn’t deserve to get a date, when, aside from being a star athlete, he also happens to be a pretty awesome guy. I guess from a girl’s perspective he could be rather foul, since his first loves are food and porn, and he hangs around Craig and I, who don’t exactly have the cleanest mouths. But he’s kind to a fault, and he can be rather annoying cute.

He adds a wiggle and a shimmy to his dance. Case in point.

“Yeah, but it’s Mandy! She’s a nominee for Queen!”

“Why is everyone making such a big deal out of the stupid homecoming nominations?” I grumble, but that just gets Clyde chattering on about the importance of school spirit, and how, as the future king, I should uphold the time honored tradition of getting laid homecoming night and making sure my friends do the same.

“But I don’t want to get laid,” I point out.

Clyde stares at me. He blinks. He stares some more.

“What did you just say? Marsh, man, do you even know what’s coming out of your mouth?”

“I said I don’t want to get laid,” I repeat, not getting what the big deal is.

“You’re a seventeen year old boy. Getting laid is like, the Holy Fucking Grail of your teenage years. How can you not want the Holy Grail?” he asks in a despairing voice, like my apathy towards sex is a physical blow to him.

“Dude, I didn’t say I don’t want you to get laid. Just, I dunno, I don’t want to.”

I stick my hands deep in the pockets of my black jeans. I was going to wear normal jeans today, and a band t-shirt, but my sister decided to borrow my clothes so she could lend them to some guy that slept over. The fact that my parents let a guy sleep in Shelley’s room is scandalizing enough to me, but I’m more concerned on why she isn’t going back to college. It’s too early for any kind of break, and short of her failing out, I can’t think of any reason for her to be home this long.

My dad doesn’t seem worried, but my dad worries about few things that don’t affect his personal schedule of football games on the boob tube, warm meals, and icy cold beer.

My mother, I think, is mildly put off, but she’s so overjoyed that Shelley ‘wants to be home’ that she’s not asking questions, yet.

If my sister did fail out of school, there’s a very real possibility that having all my shirts stolen is going to be the least of my problems.

I might have to kill myself, and I really don’t want to; life’s been taking an optimistic turn lately.

As if reading my mind, some kid yells out, “Hey Raven! Looks like you’re back in black!”

I can’t tell if it’s an insult or a compliment. A month ago I would have guessed insult, but people have been acting strange since this whole homecoming thing. Almost like they think I actually earned the nomination.

I glare at Clyde, because this is all his fault.

I was perfectly happy being a high school nonentity. Why did he have to fuck with that?

Then again, Kyle seems pretty excited about it. He mustered the courage to broach the subject over the weekend, and essentially bubbled over with excitement.

“Don’t you see?” he’d asked, “This is a mark of your social rise. You’re finally regaining who you used to be!”

I couldn’t break his heart and tell him that nobody had voted me anything.

If anything was going to get broken, it would be Clyde or Craig’s faces.

Now Clyde looks so damn happy, though, I can’t even gather the nerve to punch him. It’d be like hitting a tiny, adorable animal.

“You can’t not want to,” Clyde says firmly, “Sex is important.”

“The Holy Grail,” I rejoin, “I know. You know, unlike some people, I’ve actually had sex.”

“Your hand doesn’t count, Marsh,” a new voice pipes in. Craig’s standing behind me, dressed in a blue hooded sweatshirt and ripped jeans that his brown leather belt are barely keeping up. I can see skin between the denim and cloth, and I wonder if that’s on purpose.

He’s been stepping up his game since the dance, but I’m not sure if he’s conscious of it.

God. I hope I’m not here when Clyde breaks the Mandy news to him. He’s going to be shattered.

“Haha, very funny,” I glare at Craig, “For your information, I had sex with two girls. Two. That’s two more than you’re ever going to get, ass rammer.”

Craig gives me this look that very clearly indicates he’s not interested in fucking anything with a vagina, anyway. I have no reply for that - how did I ever actually believe he was straight? - so I keep my mouth shut.

The thing is, I’m not really certain that Craig is gay. Maybe he's just Clyde-sexual? Or maybe I've just folded his long-standing jealousy of Clyde's girlfriends into the yearning looks and the almost kiss and the dance the wrong way, and I'm misconstruing everything. I’m not a hundred percent positive he is gay for Clyde, after all. Ninety percent, sure, because I’m a guy, and I pride myself on being able to read the signs when another guy is interested in someone. Craig absolutely acts like Clyde’s the only thing he sees, especially these past few weeks, but there’s still a chance I’m mistaken.

I mean, if I really think about it, I used to act like that with Kyle, until Wendy came in the picture. So maybe all Craig feels for Clyde is really deep friendship. It’s not like he’s ever verbalized the fact that he wants to bone Clyde. I doubt he ever would, even if he does feel that way.

And if he doesn’t, I’m willing to admit I’m wrong.

I just. Don't think I'm wrong. Craig’s been extremely vocal about any and all of Clyde’s conquests, forever and always, but the way he watched Clyde at the dance? Come on.

On top of that, Craig’s a pretty good looking guy. He’s got shaggy, dark hair, chocolate eyes, and rather cut musculature. I’m a dude, and I’ll admit he’s hot. So the fact that he’s avoided dating since the beginning of high school when he was sort of a teenage Don Juan prior to that makes me suspicious.

Call me a romantic, but when I first met them, I believed the rumors about them being gay. Even after they insisted they were card carrying heterosexuals.

It’s not just the fierce way Craig acts around our friend, but the things he does. It’s the way he lets Clyde win at video games, even though he royally sucks at them. It’s the way Craig lets him prattle endlessly about this or that comic book when he has absolutely no interest. It’s the way he stares when he thinks no one else is looking. And I think subconsciously, Clyde likes him right back.

The other night, when I walked in and it looked like a kiss was hanging tentatively in the air between them, one that needed only the slightest push to happen, I could have kicked myself. I was sort of caught up in finding Kyle at the time, but I knew that I’d just messed things up. That ninety percent certainty of mine is enough to bet my life on, and I know that by interrupting that kiss, I’d really screwed things up for Craig.

More than that, I’d hurt him. I think maybe he’s been waiting and waiting for Clyde to acknowledge whatever it is they have, and I made him miss that chance.

So yeah, I stay quiet, because I’m an asshole for messing that up. I’m even more of an asshole because I’m going to let him find out about Mandy all on his own. Maybe one day he’ll say it out loud; that he wants Clyde. And on that day, I’ll start helping him in any way I can.

Until then, I have to let him flounder, and I have to let him make mistakes. He’d never forgive me if I didn’t.

“Craig,” Clyde throws his arms around the dark haired boy’s neck, and I watch Craig’s entire body stiffen from the contact, “Guess what?”

“What?” Craig asks easily, despite the slightly panicked look in his eye. He doesn’t seem to know whether to call Clyde a fag and shove him away or to pull him in closer. I sympathize, really.

They’ll figure it out one day. I hope.

“I have a date for homecoming.”

Or maybe not. Craig’s panic turns to something dark. His shoulders slump. It’s like he’s defeated, “I thought you dumped that skank from the dance.”

“She wasn’t a skank,” Clyde releases his hold on Craig’s neck, “She was nice.”

“You’re only saying that because she hoovered your dick outside the gym,” Craig snarls back, “She was a whore, and a cunt.”

“Take that back!” Clyde looks murderous, “She didn’t hoover anything, dude! She was a nice girl!”

“Right, because no one would want to go near your shriveled dick.”

Ah. Flirting at its best.

I slowly back away.

“Do you have to be such an asshole all the time?”

“Do you have to be such a man slut all the time?”

Clyde screams, “Fine! I won’t tell you who I’m going to homecoming with!”

“I don’t want to know who’s prostituting themselves out to you this time!” Craig yells.

The fight’s beginning to attract attention. See what I meant about jealousy?

“Mandy’s not a prostitute!”

“Mandy? The cheerleader who prances around with her vag showing? Oh yeah, that one’s a real catch, Donovan.”

“Well fuck you, Tucker!” Clyde shoots back.

The sound reverberates down the hallway, over the garbled sound of the masses of teenagers innocently making their way to class.

Clyde’s steaming mad. It looks like it’s taking all his willpower not to throw a punch. He grabs his book bag, hits Craig in the arm with it, hard, and marches off towards the other end of the hall.

“That was such a girly move,” Craig mutters, rubbing his arm tenderly. He looks at me, and I swear, this is why I think I’m right. Because after an argument with Clyde, Craig always looks like the world might end.

Staring into his eyes, I kind of believe it too.

“Come on, dude,” I say, lifting my own bag over my shoulder, “Let’s get to class.”

“’Kay,” he pouts, “Hey Marsh?”

“Yeah?”

“That was a girly move, right? Hitting me with his dumb, heavy bag?”

“Completely,” I reply.

* * *

 

I meet Kyle on Wednesday afternoon, ignoring the fact that I’m nearly being crushed under the weight of fifty pounds of homework. I haven’t quite worked up the courage to ask Kyle about helping me with it yet, and it seems since this whole thing started, I’ve fallen too far behind.

But senior year doesn’t really count, right?

When I knock on his door, his mom answers it.

Now, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen Sheila Broflovski in the awkward four year no-talking period of our lives. She and my mom have been pretty close friends forever it seems. This is, however, the first time I’ve seen her look genuinely happy to see me in ages. Not to mention surprised.

Usually she just appears kind of sad.

“Stanley? Dear, are you at the right house?” she asks. When I nod, her smile grows wider, “And does Kyle know you’re visiting?”

I nod again. This one’s received with a tight, enthusiastic hug. Mrs. Broflovski smells like powder makeup and strong perfume, and it’s an achingly familiar combination.

Embarrassed by her sudden affection, she pulls back, “Oh! I’m sorry, Stanley. It’s just so good to see you and my Bubbalah, friends again.”

"I know, Mrs. B,” I say, returning her smile whole heartedly. She pats my cheek and lets me inside.

I find Kyle sitting at his kitchen table with a textbook full of math equations spread out in front of him. His lips are twisted in concentration, his eyes narrowed, and his cheeks sucked in.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that your face will stick that way?” I demand, sliding into the chair beside him.

Kyle glares at me out of the corner of his eye, “You think you’re funny, but you’re not.”

“Really? I thought I was being fantastically witty,” I pull out the chair beside him and sit.

“Hardy har har,” Kyle groans and folds his arms across his textbook, “Today sucks ass.”

He slumps his head down against his arms, so that all I can see is the bright hue of his eyes. I want to make a joke about how my presence should make him feel better, because that’s what the old Stan would do.

Instead, I get to be Raven.

I realize he’s serious, and lower my head to his level, “Why, dude? What’s wrong?”

“Bebe dumped me. Bitch,” Kyle mutters.

“What?”

“You heard me. You know, I used to fucking hate Bebe. She acted like such a whore. You _know_. Then junior year she came crawling back and telling me she’d changed, and it felt like she had. She was so sweet. And like, I don’t know, dude. Smart. Surprisingly smart. She educated me on some stuff.”

Probably stuff like sucking cock, but I didn’t want to say so and hurt Kyle’s feelings.

“And she’s just, so beautiful. Her hair’s all fucking shiny, and her rack's fanfuckingtastic, and she’s got these legs that are like…damn, man.”

I give him an attentive smile to show I’m listening, but keep my lips closed. I’m scared of what I’ll say if I don’t.

“I can’t believe she dumped me. Things were going so well. I mean, it turned out she wasn’t even a skank like we all thought. Every time I tried to get in her pants, she wasn’t having it. That girl keeps her legs firmly closed, man.”

Now that I wasn’t buying at all. I saw her dancing up on him at the dance. She was trying to devour him with her vagina. Seriously.

“When she first asked me out, it was so awkward. I’d barely dated anyone, and she had so many expectations. And then we kissed, and I guess it was supposed to magical or something. It didn’t really feel right. But she liked it, and I liked her trying to put her hands down my pants, even though that was a one off, and somehow we just ended up together. She was a good girlfriend.”

I wouldn’t have figured Bebe Stevens to be good with relationships, but okay.

“Almost seven months, man. My longest relationship, and it’s almost seven months. That’s pathetic.”

We’re in high school, I want to tell him, but he’s not done yet. “She used to bake me cookies. And cakes. She likes to bake. And sometimes she’d give me back massages. She has magic fingers.”

I bet.

“And she’s smart. Did I mention that?”

I nod, and he goes on, “She wants to be an accounting major in college. She’s great with numbers.”

A worthy talent for a prostitute.

“I can’t believe how much I miss her. Being with her never felt- no. It was great. It was amazing. I must’ve really fucked up for her to break up with me.”

I seriously doubt it. Whatever Bebe’s reasons for dumping Kyle, they probably had nothing to do with him being anything less than amazing. Maybe I’m prejudiced, but how could they be? Kyle’s amazing. He shines.

Except the more I’ve been hanging out with him, the more I’ve been thinking things are kind of strange. I mean, why did he cut himself off? Like he was going to say things with Bebe were less than perfect?

Come to think of this, he’s handling this breakup really well, with the exception of the moping. Most other guys I know would freak if their girlfriend of over half a year dropped them like this. But Kyle’s really, really calm. It’s unsettling.

“Girls are weird,” I finally say, “You’re better off.”

“You’re just telling me that because you want me to feel better,” Kyle replies mournfully.

“No. I’m telling you it because it’s true.”

“I don’t know,” he moans, “And I still haven’t even gotten to talk to Kenny yet. I can’t find the words to say to him. I’m such a coward.”

“Dude. It’s okay to be confused.”

“No. Things have to be perfect,” he replies with a chilly tone, “They have to be.”

“Why?” I ask, worried now. I want to ask more, but if I do, will Kyle explode? That seems to be his MO. He goes from hot to cold to hot again in seconds. His mood swings are insane.

“They just do. Okay? FUCK!” he yells, “I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO!!!”

To stop myself from jumping back, I tongue my lip ring scar. Nerves.

“I like you better without it,” he says, and it’s the most abrupt segue I’ve ever heard.

“Without what?”

“The pierce,” Kyle nods with his eyes alone. All of his anger has vanished.

“Oh,” I can’t stop the heat from rising to my cheeks, “Yeah. It was a mistake. But…I like yours.”

He raises a finger to touch his eyebrow, and gives me a small smile, “Really?”

“Really,” I affirm. It’s not much of an I’m-sorry-your-girlfriend-broke-up-with-you talk, but hey, it’s something. Maybe one of these days I’ll be able to have a real conversation with him that doesn’t end with him freaking out and then acting like it never happened. The coffee shop. Behind the gym. Even him acting weird at Stark’s Pond the other day. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him go in five different directions all during the course of one conversation.

The day I figure out Kyle Broflovski again is the day that I grow wings and learn how to fly. I don’t know how I managed it back in the day…

…and I don’t want to ask myself if maybe it’s because he wasn’t like this before.


	13. You Can Be The Smile I Don’t Want

I’m looking for Craig come lunch on Friday. He stole my notes for my economics class and has steadfastly refused to give them back, out of some twisted desire to annoy me, or perhaps because he’s making an honest attempt to learn.

I’m not sure, and at this point I don’t care. I know if I don’t get them back from him now, he’ll be incommunicado all weekend, resulting in me flunking my econ test Monday morning.

The first place I should look is behind the school, where he likes to smoke. I mean, that’s the only other place he’s ever at, besides the cafeteria or detention, and he’s definitely not in the cafeteria. I know because I saw Clyde there, eating with Mandy and Lola. Lola gave me a predatory look when I started to approach, so I turned on my heel and walked away without asking about Craig’s whereabouts.

Clyde probably didn’t know anyway; I doubt Craig was in the mood to spill the beans if he saw what I did; Mandy massaging Clyde’s thigh, her fingers inching higher and higher towards his junk.

Even though I know he’ll be behind the school, I hope against hope he’s not. I check the library, a few classrooms, the bleachers at the football field, and the front lawn where the stoners are having a philosophical debate before surrendering.

My anxiety is palpable, and a little ridiculous. Maybe it’s because I noticed that Kyle wasn’t in the cafeteria, and I’m scared he’ll be smoking back there too.

I haven’t been avoiding him since the other day; I’ve just been keeping out of his way. It’s like he said about Kenny; I just can’t find the words I need right now. Being around him is familiar and fun, but there are times when he looks at me and it feels like I’m talking to a total stranger, one I can never comprehend.

It could just be because I still haven’t forgiven him for freshman year, or it could be because I’m paranoid.

Whatever it is, even if Kyle has truly changed, I need some time to figure out how to deal with it. I’m a planner, I guess.

Well, that’s entirely untrue. I hate planning. But I like being mentally prepared, at the very least, and that’s what I need before I get into another heavy conversation with Kyle. I have to go into it knowing that I can comfort him, or at least find the courage to start digging into what the hell’s going on with him.

Eventually I realize I have no other alternatives. Unless Craig’s in the principal’s office, he has to be smoking.

Sure enough he’s there, sitting on the curb and talking to a boy with blond hair. They’re passing a cigarette back and forth between them, the glowing embers too bright for the dusty, shadowed sidewalk.

The two of them look like they’re part of some black and white film, except for the firefly spark of the cigarette.

The blond tilts his head to the side. To my complete and utter shock, it’s Kenny. My very own bête noir.

He’s smoking. Kenny, who never lights up for fear he’ll bring death knocking on his door, unless it's to appease Kyle.

Is it too much to hope that he gets emphysema from this one time?

A fleeting thought dances across my mind. He must be more messed up over Kyle than I initially suspected.

"Clyde’s a complete poon hound,” Craig says, taking a long drag off his cigarette, “It’s revolting.”

“No. What’s revolting is the way you spend all your time mooning over him.”

“Watch it, McCormick,” Craig scowls, sucking on the cigarette again. It sounds like they’re continuing a conversation that started way before I came in the picture.

Craig’s face disappears in a haze of carcinogenic smoke.

I’m clinging to the corner of the school building, debating whether to take a step forward or to stay exactly where I am when Craig speaks again.

“That one person, you know? That person who’s been there, forever and a day, but who never mattered until they do something or say something or look at you in a certain way, and then click! Everything falls into place, and you know that person’s the one you want, need, have to have? That’s Clyde. I’m not mooning,” he mutters gruffly, “I’m just mourning.”

Kenny ponders aloud, “But how do you even know Clyde’s that person? When did you figure it out?”

“I know because he sees me. The real me. He and Marsh are the only ones that get it. They’re the only ones that act like I’m even human. No offense. I used to be friends with Token Black, remember? We were tight, man. Then one day, we got in some stupid fight, about a video game or a girl or something. Bam. Our friendship turned to ash. It broke. It was conditional. Things with Clyde aren’t like that. He smiles, and it feels like everything might be alright with the world. So I love him. As for when…the day I got kicked off the football team,” Craig replies, and my eyes widen.

I didn’t know that. No way could I have known that. Four years? Craig’s liked Clyde for four fucking years? Does that even qualify as like anymore? I’ve never seen a high school relationship last more than two, but for a guy to hold out for four years…Seems to me, that crosses into the realm of love.

Suddenly I’m seeing Craig in a different light, and he’s distant and unreachable.

I’ve never been in love. I mean, I’ve thought I was, but looking back, I never felt more than deep caring for anyone. I’d dismissed the idea of love as storybook fodder. But if Craig Tucker can feel so strongly about someone, maybe I’ve been wrong all this time.

Maybe it’s possible to lose yourself completely to someone else.

Scary concept.

“I’ve liked Kyle for a year,” Kenny murmurs, like he’s ashamed. Like it makes him less than Craig for not having the stamina to hold out as long.

If I were him, I wouldn’t worry about it. Craig’s a tenacious bastard. Few people match his stubbornness.

“At least you kissed him,” Craig responds.

I can’t believe Kenny told him that. Kyle would be furious if he knew.

“That doesn’t matter. I screwed everything up, and I don’t even know how to handle it. Because it’s like; endings man. I can’t take endings. Beginnings are boring and endings are tragic and I’m stuck in the middle and can’t move either way anyway. It’s so messed up; even before, Kyle was the only one who gave a shit, and it still felt like he was slipping away. Then I did this and now I can’t go back to being just friends with him, at least not while he refuses to talk to me. And there’s no way to go forward, either, unless I just drop him. I can’t do that. I’m in limbo,” Kenny buries his head in his hands, looking pitiful.

He’s not beautiful, or haloed, or filled with stardust, or whatever any of those descriptions are that you’re supposed to give people when they’re too sad to give a fuck. When their tears are supposed to be gorgeous and their tragedy is supposed to punch you in the gut and wrench your heart.

Kenny doesn’t look like any of that. He looks drained. Beyond caring.

Craig passes him the cigarette, and he inhales so deep that for a moment I think he’s going to asphyxiate himself.

“You know, elementary school was easier. Kyle was my friend, and it didn’t matter who he liked or disliked, as long as he liked…Stan…and me, and disliked Cartman. I don’t know how things got so turned around.”

I find myself silently agreeing with Kenny.

“When he first started acting like Cartman was his new best friend, it was weird. So they spent some time together, away from the rest of us, so what? I didn’t get why he started taking things out on Stan. Then, once we were in high school, I started to. He knew. He knew we were all going to change, and he didn’t want to risk having Stan drift away from him. I mean, Stan was doing it already. Football practice and Wendy…So he did it himself.”

“That was a real dick move,” Craig hums, “Kyle should have given Marsh more credit.”

“It was, and he should have” the blond admits, “But he was right. Stan changed. He got bitter and angry.”

It’s odd, hearing myself talked about with an almost normal tone from Kenny’s lips. It’s odd that he thinks I’m bitter and angry, when I think the same of him. This soft-spoken, belligerent Kenny isn’t the one I remember.

“Ever think that was because Kyle pushed him away, and not because of any other mitigating factors? You guys alienated him, completely. You refused to even call him by his fucking name. That’s gotta be harsh, coming from people you think of as your best friends.”

Kenny hangs his head in shame, “It doesn’t even matter now. The guy he is now; that’s not Stan. It doesn’t matter. I’m not the same person either. My life has been dissolving into crap. That’s all I have now, a giant landfill.”

I’m not me? Haven’t I been saying the same thing about Kyle? Shit.

Do I have it backwards?

And why do I hate that Kenny knows more about Kyle than I do?

“Hey Craig,” he asks softly, “Why do you hang out with Raven?”

“He’s a good guy. He hasn’t changed, you know. He’s still a big old softie. His heart’s frickin’ gold. He’s just older, and I don’t know, wiser or some shit,” Craig replies, and I make a mental note to thank him sometime, “I think maybe it’s just your perspective has changed.”

“I don’t see it.”

“Well, you must have, once. You were friends with Marsh way longer than I ever was. Up until last year, dude, I’d see you waving in the halls,” Craig answers nonchalantly, pinching the cigarette butt between his fingers and taking in one last long inhalation.

Afterwards he throws it down on the ground, watching it burn itself out.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. But that was before he turned into fucking competition. I think he’s got his eye on-“

I don’t hear the rest. Mostly because my body has stiffened violently, due to the other body pressed up against my back. Definitely female.

I turn to face my assailant. It’s Bebe Stevens. I forget everything that Kenny was saying, because…yeah. This can’t be good.

“Stan,” she purrs, “Eavesdropping isn’t nice. What were you listening in on?”

She tries to peek around my shoulder to see Kenny and Craig, but I block her. Football comes in useful; always knew I had these broad shoulders for something.

“Naughty, naughty,” she wags a finger at me, bending down low to reveal an eyeful of cleavage.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Then, just when I think all the signs are pointing to places I really don’t want to go, Bebe straightens and says, “I wanted to talk to you about something. Do you think we could do it somewhere more private? My house?”

“Um,” I know, consciously, that there’s no right answer to this. But she’s giving me big doe eyes and looks seriously concerned, “What do you want to talk about?”

“You know. Kyle. Stuff. Come on, silly. You’re not scared of lil’ ol’ me, are you?”

No way am I scared of Bebe Stevens.

Fuck it. I know I’m going to regret this, but…

“Okay.”


	14. I Was King Of The World Now It’s Killing Me

Bebe’s house is artfully decorated. Where my mother prefers plain walls and the occasional family picture, Bebe Steven’s mom is quite the homemaker. The red walls of the living room are adorned with wicker wreathes and plastic fruit, and cross-stitch needlework with sayings like ‘home is where the heart is’. Standing there in my dark jeans, black t-shirt, and black beanie, there’s no denying I’m out of my element.

“So, uh,” I shift from foot to foot, “What did you want to talk about?”

Bebe smirks, “This and that.”

Well. That was enigmatic.

She disappears up the stairs, and I can only assume I’m supposed to follow her, so I do.

I’m not the kind of guy who frequents girls’ rooms very often. Wendy’s, as I recall, was plastered with posters of endangered species, pictures of friends, and inspirational sayings. Henrietta’s had posters of bands called things like ‘Dripping Blood’ and ‘Savage Life’; mostly they were black with skulls and crossbones on them. I didn’t quite know what to expect when I stepped into Bebe’s.

Certainly not so much…glitter.

One full wall of Bebe’s room has been painted in metallic gold paint, while the rest of the walls are glaringly fuchsia, and smothered in what looks to be gold glitter. It’s like I just walked into Hannah Montana’s dressing room.

I turn towards her to comment on the lovely décor, and my voice catches in my throat.

Her jeans and her sweater are a distant memory, lying on the floor. There she stands, dressed only in a dark green bra and panty set that must have cost a hefty amount, judging from the cut and the fancy lace design. She looms in front of me, her extravagant underwear barely containing her breasts or curvaceous hips. I can see the pink of her nipples through her bra as she leans forward and purrs, “Stan.”

“Uh, um,” I stutter, hating myself for it; it’s a nervous condition. Bile rises in my throat. I force myself to squeak, “I thought we were going to talk.”

“Oh yeah,” she replies in this husky, sensuous voice, “I’m interested in having a real in depth conversation.”

Her fingers reach for the crotch of my pants, and I jump back so fast I nearly knock over the glass vanity table full of makeup behind me, “Bebe, what the hell?!”

She pouts, trailing her fingers across her abdomen, “I thought you’d like this.”

“Your Kyle’s girlfriend, dude!”

“Ex-girlfriend,” she corrects, placing her hands on her hips. She pads forward on the carpet towards me, and I’m seconds away from leaping out the nearest window because the doorframe seems so far away, “I broke up with him for you. He’s boring anyway. I need a man who’s adventurous. Who doesn’t care about what other people think. A man like you, Stan.”          

“What? Why?” I plead with her, “That makes no sense.”

“Don’t be silly. You can’t elect me homecoming queen if I’m dating him,” she flutters her eyelashes, “Can you?”

I start this nervous, tittering laugh because I can’t help myself.

God. Why didn’t I think of it before? Who’d have thought homecoming made girls so completely psycho?

“Don’t worry, baby. I’m going to make all your dreams come true.”

I remember Kyle telling me how Bebe wouldn’t give it up to him, and glare at her. She thinks just because she’s prancing around in her lacy underwear, I’m going to bite? I’m a more loyal guy than that.

Besides, her rack isn’t nearly as nice as say, Henrietta’s. For that matter, I prefer Wendy’s tiny breasts to Bebe’s bouncy, oversized monstrosities.

Even if I didn’t, I couldn’t do anything about it. Every time my eyes even stray to her boobs, Kyle’s face flashes in front of my eyes.

Not in a weird way; I’m just such a good friend.

Really.

“Bebe. I’m not electing you anything.”

Immediately, her nice-pretense shatters. In an icy tone she says, “Repeat that, Raven?”

“You heard me. No way am I electing you homecoming queen.”

I duck just before a hairdryer conks me on the head. She screams, “You asshole! Taking advantage of me!”

Hunh?

“I’m telling Kyle this was all your fault,” she hisses through clenched teeth.

My gut twists, “No! You can’t.”

Bebe’s eyes widen with understanding, “Oh. So that’s how we’re going to play this? Tell me, Raven. What would it take for you to nominate me? Hmm? What if I got back together with Kyle? I know I broke his heart.”

Well. That’s true, even though I’m not nearly adept enough at reading Kyle to figure out if he really wants Bebe back.

I think of him, miserable in the kitchen. He implied things might not have felt right with Bebe, but maybe he was just confused. Maybe he was trying to, I don’t know. Mask his pain, or something.

Hell. Why not?

“Yeah. That might work. I’ll vote for you if you go back to being with Kyle.”

Bebe thinks it over, a smirk gracing her lips, “Sounds perfect. I liked him better than your freaky goth ass anyway.”

I say _thank you ma’am_ and bolt out of there like the hounds of hell are on my tail.

I am never, ever taking a girl’s invitation to go to her house again. That was some scary shit, man. I had no idea Bebe was so aggressive. I guess I should have expected it, what with Lola and Wendy hot on my ass too.

Of course, I doubt they ever thought about going this far with it. Shit. What is up with homecoming in this town? Our football team is shit, and it’s only a plastic tiara!

I hotfoot it over to Coffee Blue, which is my go-to thinking spot. I want to call Craig, but after hearing his confession this afternoon I feel uncomfortable doing so. There’s Clyde, but I think he mentioned something about a date with Mandy to me this morning. I’m on my own.

I order a polar bear latte from the barista Clyde had a crush on towards the beginning of the school year. Only a month and a half has passed, and he’s already over it. High school love is so fleeting.

God, I sound like a bad poet now.

It’s not quite evening, so there’s no entertainment, or even philosophical college kids waxing on about Plato, Marx, or some other dead guy.

In fact, the place is pretty much empty. I stare at the artwork on the walls, painted by Park County’s burgeoning artistic community. Some of the pictures are macabre and terrifying. Some of them are beautiful, breathtaking.

I’m not much of an artist myself; the only creative juice I have usually goes to strumming out tunes on my guitar, which I kind of suck at. My confidence in myself was shot after this Hybrid debacle in fourth grade, and I haven’t actively pursued a song writing career since then.

At any rate, I always thought my lyrics were a little too Raven-esque rather than Stan Marsh.

Stan Marsh. Fuck. I haven’t heard so many people call me by my name since eighth grade. It feels like I’m regaining my identity, but at the same time, I think about what Kenny said earlier. Am I really the same Stan I was then? Probably not. Everyone changes as time passes, even if we don’t realize it. We grow out of one phase and into another, and we dress differently, and we um, talk smarter?

I bet my English teacher would really appreciate that last turn of phrase.

Ahem. Anyway, point is, all that stuff is on the outside, it’s what people see. If peoples’ perceptions make me who I am, then Stan’s disappeared for good.

Then again, Craig defended me. He said I’m the same, inside, where mom always says it counts.

Jesus. Where’s a philosophical college sophomore when you need one? They’d sort me out in a jiffy.

I think I’m placing too much value on the university educational system. From what I’ve heard, our local college is basically high school part deux.

"Raven? Shouldn’t you be kissing your faggy little friend’s ass?” a voice interrupts my spinning, confused line of thought. I glance up.

“Derek,” I acknowledge wearily, because I’m tired, and can’t deal with whatever message he’s passing on for Henrietta.

He slides into the chair across from me, cradling a small espresso cup, “You look beat, man.”

“Um. You could say that.”

He raises an eyebrow, and I notice for the first time that he has nice eyes. They’re a blue-gold mixture that totally contrasts his red and black ponytail.

It takes me a minute to realize the reason I never noticed before is because he usually has on gray or black contacts.

“Those real?” I ask, pointing to his eyes.

“The genuine article,” he replies, “Air’s too dry for contacts. They keep falling out.”

I want to tell him they’re kind of nice, but that would be a little gay.

“So what does Henrietta want?” I sigh. Might as well be out with it.

Derek shrugs, “Fuck if I know. Haven’t seen her all day.”

I’m surprised, “Thought you came to give me a message.”

“Contrary to popular belief, I have better things to do than stalk your conformist ass all day,” he retorts, an irritated scowl twisting his lips.

Ass. Hunh. That reminds me.

“You touched my ass the other day,” I accuse.

“Did I?” he arches an eyebrow again, real skillful. I wish again that I had that talent. Why does everyone but me have the gift? “I hadn’t noticed.”

“You sure?”

“I dunno, Raven. It was probably an accident. You making such a big deal out of it is kind of queer, you know?”

I flush. Fine. If he wanted to play it that way, okay. I finish my coffee in silence, and Derek doesn’t seem to mind very much.

When I get up to leave, I feel his hand on my butt again. Goddamnit.

I leave, refusing to say anything at all.

* * *

The weekend passes without any studying, so I predictably fail my economics test on Monday. Otherwise, the day is mostly normal; Craig moping, Clyde bragging…and Kyle telling me he’s gotten back together with Bebe.

He beams with pride when he says it, and for once I feel like I’ve done a good thing.

Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday morning are mostly peaceful, except for my having to dive into empty classrooms every time I spot Lola or Wendy wandering the halls. Their campaigns for queen are getting more insistent with each day.

I guess they have to; I’m not sure when homecoming is, but I’m pretty sure it’s in a few weeks.

So far, I’ve managed to successfully avoid them at all costs. Go me. 

Thursday afternoon, however, brings surprises.

Mostly in the form of Kyle at lunch, saying, “I think Bebe and I are going to have sex.”

He announces this at the table I’m sharing with him, Kenny, and Cartman. The fatass only allowed me to sit here because he’s mostly absorbed in being taught remedial math by Patty Nelson, a long time crush.

I’m fine with the onetime entry into Cartman’s cafeteria social circle; the only reason I’m sitting with them is because Craig and Clyde landed lunch detention.

Again.

But that's not what I'm focusing on now. Kyle’s words make my stomach turn. I’m close to vomiting for the second time this week.

What?

Good friends want their friends to get laid. Don’t they?

I frown at Kyle. Kenny’s wearing the same expression. Guess he’s not feeling so charitable towards Bebe either.

At least I know his reason. He wants Kyle to penetrate him instead. So what’s my excuse?

“Good. About time that skank let you pound her orifices,” Cartman comments, his gaze trained on Patty Nelson’s cleavage, framed by a low cut v-neck sweater.

“You are such a pig,” Patty says, but it’s mostly a giggle.

Figures she would find oinkers attractive. The girls in this school are seriously brain damaged.

“That’s-um, great, dude,” I congratulate Kyle, which is more than Kenny manages.

He stutters something like, ‘I have to go’ and bolts from the table.

Kyle’s eyes follow him out of the cafeteria, and I suppress the urge to force him to look at me.

It feels like nothing’s changed. I’m his friend now, but I don’t know. I guess I thought eventually our super best friend powers would kick back in. So far he’s mostly used me to complain to. When we hang out, I feel like his mind’s a million miles away.

Is it too much for me to ask for him to look at me, and maybe see me too?

I am such a fag.

“Kyle,” I try to draw his attention back towards the table, “What brought on this decision?”

“Bebe suggested it,” he says shyly, “I’m planning candlelight and romance. Is that a pussy move?”

Figures. Bebe would probably appreciate it about as much as a quick shag in the closet, but whatever.

“No. Sounds great. Um, do you want to hang out tonight? After school?”

“I was thinking about going to Kenny’s.”

“Oh.”

He looks at me, and for the first time today, I can see his green eyes are actually interested, “But what about tomorrow? I know. You’ve been having trouble with your homework, right? I heard from Clyde that you’ve been really stressed out what with the homecoming nominations. Why don’t I help you out?”

I’m touched, “You’d do that?”

“Duh, Stan. We’re friends.”

I smile, “I’d like that, Ky.”

He smiles back, and it makes me feel sort of funny.

* * *

 

Friday morning, and there’s nothing I’m looking forward to more than the afternoon.

I’m going to spend it with Kyle. That’s a cause for celebration if there ever was one.

Unfortunately, I barely get to step in school before a book bag is hurled at my face.

Instinctively, I move to catch it. I still get the brunt of the impact on my chest. Ow.

I haven’t gotten this kind of treatment since freshman year, so naturally I turn to find the bully.

What I get instead is Bebe, her face streaked with mascara, like she’s been crying.

“I hope you’re happy, Raven. Kyle broke up with me!” she screams, alerting the entire hallway to our situation, “Go fuck yourself!”

With that, she stomps away.

Well, I don’t know what that was about, and I don’t get a chance to ask Kyle. He’s not in class.

I call his cell after school, only to get no reply.

“Hey dude,” I say to his voicemail, “We were supposed to hang out today, but um, is that still happening?”

He doesn’t call me back. I contemplate going to his house, but I don’t want to seem like some sort of creepy stalker. What if he’s sick? Yeah. That’s probably it.

That’s what I think right up until I’m getting ready for bed.

Its midnight, which is my preferred bedtime, even though my mother says that’s why I always look like shit when I wake up the next morning. Whatever, it’s the weekend again. I deserve to spend it any way I want.

My cell phone rings, and thinking its Craig wanting to bitch some more, I pick it up.

Then I notice the caller ID reads ‘Kyle’.

Immediately, I yelp, “Hello?”

“Hi, Stan,” his voice says, sounding distant and faraway, but very, very happy.

“Dude, what happened to you today?”

“You’ll never believe it,” he says, and he seems fucking giddy.

“Try me.”

“Okay. But you can’t tell anyone!” he makes me promise, and I do.

“So last night I went to Kenny’s. Stan, we talked and talked, for the first time since the dance. He was so okay with everything. He totally understood. He was asking me about Bebe, if I loved her and shit, and then-“

My breath hitches, because suddenly I know where this was going.

I want him to shut up, because then I won’t have to hear what happened.

My pulse is racing. I’m sweating. It’s unreal.

“-I kissed Kenny. Dude, I wanted to try it once, for real, and it was amazing.”

I can’t breathe.

I can’t even think.

So I hang up.


	15. Yeah All Day Every Day I Need Ya

He calls me back in point oh five seconds, of course.

I could ignore it. I could just not pick up. Except then he’d know I’m not answering on purpose, and more than anything, I don’t want Kyle to hate me. Not after all the time it took me to build up the courage to even talk to him again.

I click my phone open.

Kyle’s voice is squeaky and hyper; he’s still on his post date high.

It’s hard to associate the image of studious, eyebrow pierced, band t-shirt and converses Kyle with the voice that resembles a prepubescent boy on the other line. Kissing Kenny did a number on him, “Dude, you got cut off. Where are you?”

“In my room,” I reply automatically. I wish I was anywhere other than this place, with its blue walls and it’s ancient, decaying posters.

At least then I’d have had an excuse not to have this discussion.

“Huh. You must have crap reception then.”

“Yeah,” I agree, because I can’t tell him I just hung up for no reason. He’ll think I’m a total ‘phobe, or worse.

Funny how I can’t seem to think of what would be worse than Kyle thinking I’m homophobic.

“So did you hear me alright? About Kenny?”

“Yeah, uh,” I choke, “I heard you.”

“Good. Dude, you would not believe the day I’ve had. Kenny and I blew off school to go to that amusement park in West Park. You know, the one with all the craptacular rides?”

“I know,” I say, suddenly seething.

I introduced Kyle to that place. That was our place, where we used to go when we wanted to escape everything. He blew me off for that? How dare he take Kenny on a date in our fucking place?

I have half a mind to hang up again.

Then I realize I’m being ridiculous. What’s wrong with me? I have no right to be so possessive.

“It was amazing. I forgot how much fun it is just being around him,” Kyle sighs, and it almost sounds dream-like.

“So…are you like, gay now?” I ask, because I’m floundering for words and it’s the first thing that pops in my mind, above my raging jealousy.

On the other end, Kyle’s dead quiet. Finally he breathes, “I hadn’t thought about it. I just wanted to try it, you know? I had to give Kenny a chance.”

“Bebe’s pissed. Does she know why you dumped her?”

“No. I don’t think so. She’ll find out soon enough though.”

“It’s just…sudden, dude. You were talking about having sex with her, and…”

“Stan, are you okay with this? I mean, I thought you would be, but if I’ve made a mistake-“ he sounds so stern that I have to cut him off.

“No, I’m cool,” I assure him, “It’s just going to take some adjusting of my world view, or whatever.”

Kyle laughs. I wonder how often Kenny makes him laugh. After all, he’s so fun to be around.

Shit.

“Good. I wanted to tell you first,” Kyle confides, and I feel warm, despite the touchy subject.

“You didn’t tell Cartman?”

“Eric? Nah, not yet. You know he’ll just use it as an opportunity to call me a fag, or whatever. He kind of fails at being a good friend.”

“Oh,” I say quietly, and I’m not sure how to take the concept of Kyle considering me a good friend.

On the one hand, I’m really happy about it, but on the other hand, we’ve only been talking for a couple weeks. It feels like Kyle’s trying to force attachment between us or something, which is wrong, because we have natural chemistry.

Or we did, once upon a time.

“Stan, are you okay?”

“Yeah. Um. You just…we were supposed to hang out today, remember?” I finish, and in my head I’m berating myself for sounding like the lamest person ever. Could I be any whinier? Jesus.

“Shit! Stan, I totally forgot. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“Dude, it’s not fine. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

 “I know,” I reply quietly.

He seems a little put out that I didn’t respond with the correct amount of cheer, but he says, “Whelp, I’m beat,” and he gives me a cordial goodbye.

After he hangs up, I lay back on my bed.

There’s a pattern near my light fixture, and it kind of looks like a dinosaur. Maybe a stegosaurus. That was Kyle’s favorite when we were little. He had a stegosaurus action figure, and I had a T-Rex, and he always got so damned mad because my toy kept eating his.

Man, I miss those times.

* * *

 

Staring at the ceiling for three hours gets old real fast.

My mind’s blank. I can’t force myself to think, and trust me, I try. Thoughts and memories drift in and out like a tide, but they’re all Kyle-centric, and they escape too quickly.

Occasionally I catch one in the corner of my subconscious, just for a second, and then it floats away. I’m not all that concerned. Around the time I realize I only have a few hours left before I have to wake up, I come to the conclusion that the pattern doesn’t even look that much like a dinosaur. More like a big spotty splotch.

What the hell’s wrong with me?

I roll over and stare at the glaring red numbers on my bedside clock.

It’s not like this Kenny thing bothers me that much. It won’t even last, probably. I mean Kenny McCormick isn’t exactly the most relationship-oriented guy in school. I’m not saying he goes for anything with a moist vagina, but as far as I’ve been able to tell- and let’s face it, Kenny hasn’t really caught much of my attention except to be an asshole- his liaisons with chicks have all been few, short, and sweet. Anyway, it’s not like Kyle even mentioned the word relationship, so why am I freaking?

He didn’t say, hey Stan, I want to date Kenny. All he said is that Kenny’s fun, and that he was giving it a chance.

Giving what a chance, exactly?

I can be fun.

Wait, no.

I miss the peace of staring at the fake stegosaurus. I want to go back to that.

I shift in bed, and try to discern the marks on my ceiling again, but I can’t find them. It’s like I was staring at a tree, but now all I can see is the whole huge fucking forest. Literally and figuratively.

The clock hits four o’clock, and there’s only one thing I know for sure.

I’m going to hate myself in the morning.

* * *

 

Sure enough, I wake up in a temper. My mom doesn’t even want to deal with me. I’m what they call Not A Morning Person, but this is a whole new level.

I'm like that all weekend, even once Monday comes.

To put it lightly; I’m crabby. It doesn’t help that I spill cereal down my front, trip over my own shoelaces, my shitty car refuses to start, and I miss the bus, forcing me to prostrate myself in front of my dad and beg for the keys to his car. He denies me for a full ten minutes before my mom smacks him upside the head and tells him to stop ‘antagonizing his progeny’.

My mom’s been doing those crosswords in the paper again, and now she likes to use big words she thinks my dad doesn’t understand. Then she gets to explain them to him. It’s basically spousal bonding in a fuckin’ weird guise, and as I leave I hear her spelling out what the hell progeny means.

If that isn’t enough to enumerate how much my life sucks this morning, when I get to school, I get a snowball half-formed from ice in the back of the head. Goddamned frosh need to learn to respect their elders; I know it was them.

When I turn, I see the group of uppity prepster fourteen year olds giggling with absolutely no guilt in their eyes.

Cheeky bastards.

It’s like some days I forget I’m supposed to be this huge goth poseur named Raven, and on those days I’m just Stan Marsh.

Except today isn’t one of those days. I’m Raven full force, with a storm cloud hanging over my head. Especially when I see Kenny, leaning against his locker, talking to a certain redhead who has his hands flat on the metal on either side of the blond’s shoulders. Classic flirting procedure.

That just pisses me off more than I can express, so I storm into first period English wanting to go Columbine on the world, at least for first fleeting moments of class.

It doesn’t go over very well with my teacher, who may not know the dark thoughts in my mind could lead to bullets in her head, but does know that my glaring hatefully at her is a form of rebellion, and decides to send me to counseling during lunch. I then have to explain categorically all the reasons that life’s a bitch and then you die, which doesn’t sit well with the sunshine-and-rainbows twenty something freak they chose to counsel the overly hormonal teenagers at this school. He’s better suited to help with teen pregnancy than murderous rage, and I can tell that he doesn’t quite know what to do with me.

My saving grace comes in the form of the person I least expect.

Wendy.

By the time I get out of the counseling office and a not-so-rousing song of Kumbaya, there’s only ten minutes left of lunch. I figure I can dash down to the cafeteria and get myself a nice, healthy, nutritious snickers bar before the bell rings if I make use of all my old football training. I’m a pretty fast runner.

Then, in the near empty hallways, I hear this little sniff-snuffle-cry that stops me dead in my tracks.

My first guess is that it’s a devil’s spawn underclassman, out to trick me into some sort of trap, because I’m paranoid.

Normally I’d suspect someone my own age rather than say, a frosh, but all the senior girls are being extra nice to me because of the homecoming gig. It’s pretty obnoxious. If I wanted chicks to be nice to me, I’d have revamped my image long ago.

Up ahead, I see a girl in a pink sundress and a white hoodie with some kind of flower design on the side. Her wavy black hair falls down her back like a waterfall, and I’d recognize her anywhere. She’s leaning against a locker, sobbing into her hands.

For once her lackeys are a million miles away, or somewhere not here. It’s the only time in the past four years I’ve seen her alone, other than that round at Harbucks.

“Wendy?” I ask tentatively, even though my instinct is to turn and walk the other way.

She may be pretty, but if anyone knows the hidden viper inside of Wendy Testaburger, it’s me.

True to form, she snaps like a dog. “What do you want?” 

Well yap, yap bitch.

“Fine,” I turn around. Maybe I can find an old nutrigrain bar in my locker. I’m sure mom tried to force one on me the first day of school.

“Raven, wait. I’m sorry,” she mumbles, wiping fervently at her tears, “I mean, Stan.”

I pause. I hear her repeat ‘Stan’, like she’s trying to force herself to remember I’m a human being.

I face her. For a second it leaves me breathless.

Wendy’s eyes are normally hazel, but when she cries, something I hate to admit I’m long accustomed to from our too-many years of dating, they turn green, like watercolor pastels. It’s the palest, clearest green, like wading into a long forgotten pond.

Something about that color stops me in my tracks, and even though my stomach is rumbling, I stay put. I have this thing about green eyes, but if you asked me why, I probably couldn’t say.

Maybe I just like the color…

“Can you talk?”

“I’ve heard that is possible for humans.”

“I meant could you…do you want to…can we go somewhere and have a conversation?” Wendy stutters, and I can tell it’s killing her to be asking me.

“Is this about homecoming?” I ask warily, aware that I sound like a total jerk.

“No. Yes. Maybe,” she scowls at her own confusion, “I’m not crying over homecoming. Not really.”

“Good,” I shove my hands deep in my pockets, “You’re too strong for that.”

Those pale green eyes stare at me, no hint of gold or brown filling them. She’s still sad, “You think I’m strong?”

I sigh, hating myself for being weak willed, “I’ve always thought that, Wendy.”

“Stan?”

“Yeah?”

“Cut next period with me?”

“What?”

Well this isn’t future valedictorian talk.

I blink, stare, repeat.

“I need to tell somebody...,” her eyelashes flutter, and I’m caught, “Might as well be you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Stan,” she says again, and those green eyes pierce me.

“Okay.”

* * *

 

We head out to Shakey’s, because there’s nowhere else to go. The mall’s too loud to talk about anything serious, and there’s never anyone buying pizza midday on a weekday. Not that anyone ever cares when you skip school; there’s so many dropouts in this town that it’s kind of expected.

Wendy’s slightly cheered by her slice of cheese and olives, but only slightly.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I ask through a mouthful of pizza, because I’m a guy, and I don’t even particularly like Wendy. I’m not sure why I’m here; if I’m hoping I’ll be a spectator for her impending psychotic break, or if I feel genuine empathy for her.

Seeing her standing next to the lockers with tears in her eyes struck a chord with me, but I don’t quite know what chord it was yet; harmonic or discordant.

“Life’s shit,” she mumbles, and I can see the tears springing back up.

“Okay. How?”

How, I wanna ask, is it possible that the beautiful, perfect queen bee of Park County Regional has a crappy life? I figure that would be a bit insensitive though, so I stick to the simple ‘how’.

See, I can be nice too. Sometimes. When the mood hits me.

“I failed an exam.”

“Well boo hoo.”

I should have known. I should have expected as much from the Queen of Shallow. They should have nominations for that.

She glares hatefully at me, “That’s not all.”

“I’m only skipping one class with you. I haven’t got all day,” I prompt, rolling my eyes, ready to hear about how she broke a nail.

I can tell she’s examining me, considering how much to actually tell me.

Her tear ducts are like well springs that just won’t dry up. Her face is wet and glowing, despite the scrutiny, and I can tell that she hates the fact she’s crying in front of me.

God. Drama much? How bad could things really be?

“Mom’s been drinking.”

Oh. Okay. That’s kind of bad.

“She got so drunk a few weeks back that she hit a telephone pole in Boulder. She’s in the hospital out there; we won’t bring her to Hell’s Pass because we don’t want anyone to know.”

Yeah. That’s pretty bad.

“It’s not her fault. We’ve been having a crap time with my dad. Stan,” she raises her beautiful, tear filled eyes towards me, “I think he’s leaving.”

“Wends,” I breathe, because I don’t know what else to say. I don’t even know if she finds comfort in my saying her name, but then I hate my own identity so much that I don’t know how anyone can.

I’ve been a total prick to her. But…

How was I supposed to know all this?

“Grannie Testaburger died last fall,” she adds.

Okay. That I actually knew. I just forgot.

“I…I heard.”

“Did you?” she gives me a humorless smile, “Gramps has been in hospice care ever since. He could go any day. I just…Stan, I need to be able to control something in my life. Anything. I know being Snow Queen is stupid to you, and homecoming royalty is too…but for me, it’s one thing. One thing in my life I can take hold of and-“

“Kick in the balls?” I suggest, trying to get that sad, faraway look to go away. I feel like the biggest jerk in the world, because here I thought that she was going to tell me she broke a heel and might be flunking math, and instead I get this sob story of hopelessness, the story that you read about in the newspapers about people far, far away.

It’s not the story that should apply to Wendy frickin’ Testaburger.

“Yeah. Like that.”

“Yeah,” I murmur. And okay, homecoming is trivial. It’s dumb. But this I get. I get needing to control something, because everything else is falling to pieces, “I understand.”

“Really?”

“Really,” I reach across the table and take hold of her hand.

“Stan, don’t tell anyone. If they knew…” she flounders for words, and I know she’s thinking that the people in our school, in our town, will think less of her.

All I think is that she seems more human now. More like the girl I used to be in love with.

“I promise, I won’t,” I say, “You know me better than that.”

Her eyes widen, and she breathes, “You haven’t changed.”

I give her my cockiest grin, “I like to think I’m better looking.”

“No, but-“ she pauses, “I mean yes, well, but that’s not what I meant. I thought…and you’re…”

“You thought I was a different person,” I intone, because that’s all I’ve been getting lately.

“You were so mad when Kyle dropped you,” Wendy murmurs emphatically, covering her mouth with her fingers, “All the black clothes…and you yelled at me…yes, I thought you’d turned into a different person. Completely.”

Now I’m feeling kind of sad. I don’t remember yelling at her back then, but she’s right. After my last fight with Kyle before high school, I was kind of fucked up.

“I broke up with you because I thought you cared more about Kyle than me.”

“Wait, what?”

I’m blinking again, staring at her like she’s crazed.

“Stan, after Kyle you stopped playing football, you stopped returning my calls, and every time I tried to talk to you, it was always about him. I understood you were going through something tough, but it felt like I’d lost you.”

She’s fucking insane.

“Wends, that’s not-“

“I know. Because you’re still here,” she smiles softly, “I should have paid better attention. All this time, I thought you were the bad boyfriend, but maybe it was me.”

Ouch.

“Maybe it was both of us,” I offer.

She nods, “I’m sorry. About being such a bitch all this time. We could have been…I don’t know. Friends.”

Bitch doesn’t really cover it, but okay.

“Yeah. It’s not too late to start, you know?”

Wendy bites her lip, “Maybe.”

“Maybe works.”

We both know we’re not going to be friends. But it’s a comforting concept that the possibility exists. I look at her, and there it is. Her eyes are back to being hazel, warm brown and hints of gold, with only the slightest specks of green.

I feel a pang hit me, and it’s not because of Wendy.

Well, maybe a little. It’s because of her hazel eyes. It’s because of Shakey’s red and white color scheme, and the fact that I’m longing to see a different shade, one a little brighter, like emeralds and moss and pine needles.

And that’s when it hits me. What I’m longing to see.

Kyle has green eyes.


	16. Why Don’t You Have Some Dirty Hot Sex With Me?

“Hey Jew Boy, Kenneh was panting after you like a bitch in heat while you were in the lunch line,” Cartman announces when Kyle sets his tray down.

I know this because I’m sitting at the next table over with Clyde and Craig.

I’m sure, despite Cartman’s hulking presence, that if I decided to sit with Kyle, no one would really object. Frankly I just don’t think I’d be able to sit through what is now day five of the Kyle N Kenny love story. They’re _sickening_.

I don’t know how Cartman doesn’t notice what’s going on; obviously he sees Kenny’s unveiled puppy eyes, but he doesn’t seem to get that Kyle’s openly reciprocating.

Hell, even Bebe’s picked up on it. She’s on the rampage. It doesn’t help that a few guys from the basketball team have been jibing her, telling her she turned their star player gay.

She hasn’t exploded yet, but all the warning signs are there; she’s increased her makeup regimen so that she now resembles Bozo the Clown’s cousin, her dresses are getting more revealing by the day, and oh, yeah, she’s been throwing herself at me with brute force for most of the week.

That’s the only reason I have to be thankful for Kyle’s love-daze; he hasn’t absorbed the fact that his girlfriend is trying to get in my pants to score a tiara.

As if I would even go there.

Kyle’s eyes practically fucking sparkle as he retorts, “Maybe I like it, Eric.”

“Why would you like it? That’s so faggeh, Kahl.”

Kyle laughs, but I doubt it’s at Cartman. He and Kenny are devouring each other with their eyes.

I wonder how long it’s going to take them to jump each other’s bones. Two seventeen year old boys; I mean, come on. They don’t have to worry about doing the respectable thing…nothing’s stopping them, really.

Even though it’s barely been a week.

The thought is killing me.

“Hey Stan,” a bright voice announces from behind me.

“Buzz off, Lola,” I reply, not even bothering to look. Bitch has been hounding me worse than Bebe.

Thankfully, unlike Bebe, she keeps her knees firmly clamped together.

Doesn’t mean she hasn’t been trying to use her seductive charm.

I know there’s something wrong with me. I mean, despite being a ho, Lola’s gorgeous. Her brown-blonde hair’s all…I don’t know, shiny and stuff, and she’s got a great rack. She’s not as much of a skank as Bebe, and even though she’s only trying to use me, any other guy would take advantage of that. They might even let Bebe give them a blowjob.

It’s just one nomination, really. It would be so easy to manipulate them.

I don’t have the energy for it. I’d rather watch Kenny stare into Kyle’s green, green eyes. I’m not sure what that says about me, but I’m certain it’s not a good thing.

“God, Raven. Fine. I just wanted to tell you that you have to make a decision soon. I don’t know if you realized, but you’ve only got two weeks left.”

“That soon?” I ask, despite myself.

I knew the dread event was quick approaching, but I’d kind of put off the idea in my head.

“It’s nearly Halloween!” Lola exclaims, “You call that soon?”

“Um. Yeah,” I reply.

I wince, but don’t look behind me. From all the rustling, I think she’s bent down to sniff my hair. Once again I’m the tropics, shimmering. Shelley hasn’t left yet, and mom doesn’t seem to be making any move to, I don’t know; force her to attend class or whatever it is you do in college.

 I’m convinced she’s dropped out, and everybody’s too scared to ask her.

I know I would be. Especially if I were dad; that cool forty thou he dropped her first year will have gone to waste, not to mention however much he’s already shelled out for this semester’s tuition.

“Could you leave?” I ask, not caring that I’m being irritable.

She ignores me, because women are the devil and think its fun to antagonize you. Instead she chooses not only to stay, but to inform me of this tantalizing fact, “Raven, you smell…pretty.”

Yes, because I wasn’t aware that I had eau de vagina.

“Oh. Ohhh! Is that why you don’t want to nominate me? Are you…like that?”

I turn to face her, just in time to see her swish a hand in the air.

“Hey Lola,” I counter, “I think you’ve got something in your hair.”

Instinctively, she touches her brown locks, and I say, “Oh wait. I think they’re crabs. I didn’t know they could make it so far north.”

She gives me a scathing look and stomps away.

God, what is it with these girls? Bitches, all of them.

At least I understand Wendy; she wants to protect herself, to be perfect, and untouchable. I know exactly how that feels.

I notice Craig and Clyde have been quiet during this whole exchange.

Sadly, it’s not a new development. They aren’t talking to each other, and they won’t talk to me for fear it will be misinterpreted by the other. It’s like being best friends with mannequins. Except Craig and Clyde aren’t nearly as pretty.

I glare at them both, but they’re too busy staring at their food to see it. Whatever. I tune back into the conversation the next table over.

Cartman seems to be getting increasingly incensed as he realizes all Kyle’s attention is being co-opted by the resident poor boy.

I gotta admit; I kind of enjoy the sour expression on the fatass’s face, even though I’m not the one who put it there.

Still, the bubbly, obnoxious, googly-eyed looks Kenny and Kyle keep exchanging are getting old. Fast.

Sweet Jesus, I think they’re holding hands beneath the table.

I quickly take a cue from Craig and Clyde and decide that my hamburger is the most interesting food product in the whole wide world. It doesn’t stop my stomach from turning.

* * *

 

I’m at Coffee Blue later the same night.

This place is like a safety blanket; when the world feels too fucked up to fathom, this is where I go. The blue walls wrap around me, securing me from quiet streets outside. There’s no snow and no stars; just dull, thudding music and the sickly sweet scent of flavored espresso.

I get to enjoy the serenity of my sanctuary for all of five minutes. Then a too-familiar body slides into the seat in front of me.

“Really, Derek? Really?” I ask, because I’m too annoyed to string together entire sentences.

“Nice to see you too, Raven.”

“How’s Henrietta?” I shoot back. She’s been conspicuously absent from the let’s-bombard-Stan-with-our-feminine-wiles-so-we-can-be-homecoming-queen parade. I should have known.

“Still a fat bitch,” Derek replies, and I’m surprised he has the balls to say anything at all against his corseted mistress, “She wants to talk to you.”

“Of course she does,” I nod.

It’s expected, really. With homecoming quick approaching, it would be uncharacteristic of Henrietta to go without making one or two final bids. She’s not the type that likes to lose. Not even stupid conformist rituals that equate in her mind to slaughtering sheep, or some other equally torturous occurrence.

“Fuck it,” Derek reaches out, his dark eyes trained on me as he runs a finger down my arm, “She had her chance.”

“This teen rebellion thing is charming,” I drawl, pulling my arm away and trying to hide the fact that I’m really weirded out, “Aren’t you scared she’s going to whip you?”

Derek grins, giving me the impression that he’d like that; hell, he’s probably into all that S&M shit, “I’m interested in you, Raven.”

“Oh?”

Somehow, I don’t find that encouraging. Derek barely seemed to tolerate me before, back in the days when my primary interest was getting into Henrietta’s billowy skirt and under the antique lingerie beneath it.

Something heavy settles in the pit of my stomach.

He gives me an insolent smile and says, “Want me to tell you about it, or would you rather go see Her Highness?”

Queen of the Damned or her seriously screwed up minion?

“I choose option B,” I reply.

Henrietta doesn’t scare me nearly as much as the feral look in Derek’s eyes. 

* * *

 

Henrietta’s favorite place to hang out as a disaffected spokeswoman for her generation used to be the cemetery. I find that it’s now the local seven eleven.

“The vampire kids took over our favorite mausoleum,” Derek says by way of explanation.

Makes sense.

Under the red, white, and green Christmas lights surrounding the big orange logo, Henrietta’s skin is flawless and alien, “Raven.”

“What up?” I greet, because I know she hates it.

Sure enough, her black painted lips twist into a scowl, “I was wondering if you’d reached a decision for next week.”

“You mean whether or not to give you a tiara?” I quip, “Nope, haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Raven,” she sighs, but her voice is condescendingly patient, “I know you’re suppressing your feelings for me out of some misguided sense of hurt feelings-“

“Um, no. I broke up with you, remember?”

Henrietta’s heavy eyeliner makes her eyes look huge when they widen, “You did not.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“I released you to your conformist lifestyle.”

Derek covers his mouth with his sleeve, stifling what I can only assume is one of those telltale smirks of his.

Georgie, Henrietta’s other manservant, rolls his eyes and digs a book of poetry out of his black windbreaker.

“That’s not what happened,” I object, groaning.

“Get over yourself. It is,” she insists.

“Fine. You broke my heart,” I answer in monotone, “Whatever.”

“A little more emotion would be appropriate.”

“God, Hen. Seriously? I told you already. I don’t want to date you-“

A tiny, indignant gasp escapes her lips before she realizes that she almost risked looking undignified and petty. Henrietta hates nothing more than having moments of…well, normality.

“Fine. You don’t have to beg,” she hurries to say, “I’ll go with you to the dance.”

“Fuck! No! I’m not going anywhere with you, you crazy bitch!” I explode, ready to ream her out.

Of all people, Derek steps in.

“Well. That was…a lucrative conversation,” he interrupts, “Henrietta, Georgie has some ideas on how you can overthrow the present Britney-and-Justin regime.”

She crosses her arms, aware that she’s being dismissed, and not liking it one bit. Sighing, she fishes a cigarette and a lighter from between her breasts and murmurs, “Don’t disappoint me.”

Derek gives her a curt nod, and takes hold of my elbow. In my ear he whispers, “She thinks I’m going to convince you to vote for her.”

His breath is too hot, too close for comfort. When his lips graze my ear, I shiver against my will.

I wait until we’re finally out of range of the other Goths. Then I say, “I don’t get why this is such a big deal for everyone. It’s a crown. So what?”

“It’s not about the crown for Henrietta. That’s just a game.”

“So what’s it about?” I glance up at him, his eyes dark and unreadable, even though we’re now standing against the brightly lit storefront of the seven eleven, right by the sign that reads ‘Loiterers Subject To Fine’.

“It’s about you. What are you, retarded, Raven?”

Maybe, because I don’t get it. I stare long and hard at him, like that will give me an answer.

He sighs, “The only thing nonconformists hate worse than conformist pigs is other nonconformists who don’t fit in.”

“Like a fake goth?” I suggest, feeling almost proud of myself. I guess I broke the mold. Not what I aimed for, but hey, at least it proves that I’m not an emo pussy fag. Kind of.

Derek shrugs, “Sure. Henrietta wants to bring you back into the fold. It’s irritating the hell out of her that you won’t listen.”

“Obey,” I correct.

He smiles, not too nicely, and says, “Sit, beg. Woof woof.”

“At least you know your place in the universe.”

“Maybe it’s time for you to learn yours.”

“What do you mean?”

“I see the way you look at that Broflovski kid.”

“Excuse me- _what_?” I practically yell, because for once Kyle was the last thing on my mind.

“He’s getting all chummy with that poor loser, and you hate it.”

“I have no idea what you’re on about.”

Except maybe I get it more than I’d like to. I think of Kenny and Kyle in the cafeteria today, and how I would have liked nothing more than to slam my lunch tray alongside Kenny’s head until he bled to death.

“You do,” Derek replies thoughtfully, “You know.”

“No.”

“Yeah. Fag.”

“Are you…” my breath catches as the slur sinks in, “Are you implying…”

“That’s you’re gay?”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, dude.”

I’m seeing red. I can’t believe he just called me gay. Not as an insult. He’s fucking serious.

“Why fight it, Raven? If you like cock, I can give you something better than Broflovski. A lot better,” he grabs hold of my wrist, and I stumble forward, off my guard.

“Sick!”

“You think?”

Derek licks his lips and with only that warning, I’m suddenly getting to know his tongue piercing a little too up close and personal.

I shove him away, hard, a string of expletives bubbling from my lips.

“You’re a foul mouthed slut,” Derek tells me, pressing his body close to mine, his fingers running over the front of my jeans, “I like that.”

“Get off!” I yelp, trying to shove him away.

For a scrawny guy, he’s pretty strong. He staggers back a few steps and looks me dead in the eye.

“What? Don’t deny it. You want me as much as I want you. And I really want you; I’ve been dreaming about fucking you for weeks.”

“That’s disgusting,” I grunt.

“Oh, so it’s disgusting if I say it, but I bet if Broflovski said he wanted to suck you off, you’d be up for it.”

“God, no! Kyle’s not-“ I stop, because I was going to say Kyle’s not like that.

If this week has shown me anything, it’s that Kyle IS like that. Just…for Kenny.

And come on, even if Kyle was like that for me, I wouldn’t want anything to do with it. Right?

“He’s never going to want you, you know,” the goth boy says, “Not like I do. He’s never going to love you, or need you, or whatever it is you’re after. I see the way you idolize him. Maybe it’s time to open your eyes and see something else. Someone else.”

Derek’s grinning like the cat that caught the canary, and I can’t take the way he’s leering at me right now. It’s so…wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong!

“You ever come near me again, I’ll fucking castrate you,” I warn him before I walk away.

Behind me, I hear him laugh faintly, “Kinky.”

This has been one hell of a day.


	17. They All Laugh And Slap Me Five

Luckily, in the final days leading up to homecoming, nobody else tries to rape me.

There _are_ a few near groping incidents, mostly on the part of Bebe and Henrietta. Wendy and Lola have too much dignity for it, and Mandy just doesn’t seem to care.

I’m too preoccupied studying Kyle to even notice.

Sure, Derek’s a psychopathic bastard, but something he said really hit home. I idolize Kyle. I mean, he’s right. I do. I think about him all the time. I wonder if he likes me. I stress about what to say to him.

I’m not saying Derek’s right about…well, his romantic implications. Not at all. I mean, I can’t even find words to describe how grossed out I am that another dude kissed me. I had to spend hours scraping my tongue with a toothbrush and anti-bacterial soap. Really.

And if his hands felt a little too good, then no one will ever know.

Anyway, the coronation’s set to occur Friday night, right after the homecoming game. We’re playing some other hick town whose mascot’s a goat. Their name doesn’t matter ‘cause Park County Regional’s going to lose. We always lose; it's our trademark.

So Thursday afternoon, I spend most of lunch out behind the school with Craig. Clyde’s sitting with Mandy, and Kyle’s sitting with Kenny. Both Craig and I are miserable, but at least Craig has a concrete reason.

Mandy’s gorgeous, sweet, well mannered, and everything that Craig Tucker’s not. In short, he’s screwed. And I’m stumped. I would have laid money down that Clyde and Craig were a sure thing.

Okay, I guess I might have jumped the gun on Clyde reciprocating Craig’s feelings, but it’s not my fault. I could have sworn he did.

Then again, I haven’t proved to be the best judge of character lately.

“You’re making us into total losers,” I tell Craig, watching him take a long drag from his cigarette and imagining his lips belong to someone with a couple more freckles.

Shit. No. Nevermind, I’m not imagining anything. The realization that I’m staring at fucking Craig’s lips helps out with that one.

“Spooky, isn’t it?” Craig droned, waggling his fingers half-heartedly in the air while his cigarette dangles between his lips, “Because we were so effin’ cool before.”

“This needs to end,” I tell him, “Preferably now. Your emo is starting to infect me.”

He glances at me, his dark hair falling into his eyes, “Too late, Marsh. You got that virus a long time ago.”

“Thanks. Screw this. I’m going to talk to Clyde.”

My friend looks at me, and man, his eyes are murderous. They practically scream traitor.

I sit back down. Hell, I’ll talk to Clyde when school’s over.

* * *

 

I don’t. Talk to Clyde, that is. At least not until the next evening, right before the football game.

I put it off mostly because I have to be at work on Thursday night, but I regret it later. What happens; well, what happens is kind of messed up.

I’m a bundle of nerves, because hey, I’m getting crowned fucking king of the school at halftime, and I’m still mostly convinced someone’s going to go all ‘Carrie’ on me with some pig’s blood or something. Even though I know this whole thing is Craig and Clyde’s twisted way of getting their rocks off, it’s hard to suppress my paranoia.

Craig’s a bundle of nerves too, ‘cause I finally got him to own up to his neuroses and admit that he should talk to Clyde right before we came.

My mother would have been real proud had she seen it. I was sensible, and calm, and told him how nice Mandy was, and how he should just tell Clyde whatever’s going on in that fucked up head of his.

I mean, yeah, I didn’t tell him to soldier up and confess his feelings, but I’ve said it before. Craig and I don’t talk about feelings. We just don’t. It’s not manly.

So we end up walking to the locker room.

We expect to see a bunch of burly looking, familiar guys suiting up in the PCR colors, and we do.

They’re just in the background.

And in the foreground we’ve got a guy in full football gear clutching his helmet at his side and wrapping one meaty paw around a girl, a girl with brown hair and a cheerleading outfit.

Yeah, it’s Clyde and Mandy. And they’re swallowing each other’s tongues, from the look of it.

Craig, who was all benevolent and apologetic for being an ass on the way here, reverts to his default mode. Which pretty much means he’s back to being an ass. A seriously pissed off ass.

“I can’t believe this!” he fumes, yelling words that I don’t even think our coach knew.

Mandy disentangles herself from Clyde, all wide eyed and kind of scared.

Clyde, on the other hand, is not impressed, “Craig?”

“What the hell, man?”

Clyde doesn’t take being yelled at very well. He’s a sweet guy, a real teddy bear, but never sneak up on him in a back alley, is all I’m sayin’.

“What the hell yourself?” he shouts back, “What is your drama?”

Mandy proves herself smarter than the rest of the homecoming nominees, throwing me a small wince, a fleeting wave of her pompoms, and backing out of the locker room. She knows where she’s not wanted.

That or she has a frickin’ healthy appreciation for her life.

I wish I could follow her.

“You! It’s always you!” Craig yells back. Most of the team follows Mandy’s example and flees the room.

Now it’s just my idiot friends and me. Joy.

“Me? I’m not the one who flips every single time anything with breasts walks by!” Clyde screams.

Craig’s cheeks are red with fury, “Maybe because I don’t drool over everything with breasts that walks by! Ever think of that, asshole?”

“No, because I’m not fucking gay!”

Cue the silence. The kind of thick, heavy silence that makes you think lying alive in a coffin six underground might be a little more entertaining.

And less stressful.

“You know what? I’m done with this,” Craig mutters, “Done.”

Clyde realizes he’s made a mistake, but he doesn’t look ready to apologize.

‘Do something’ I mouth behind Craig’s back.

Clyde gestures helplessly at me. I gesture back; something not very nice.

Finally he yells after our friend’s retreating form, “Look, Craig. I’m sick of this are we-or aren’t we shit! You have all the cards, and now it’s time to fucking play them already. It’s the only way to ever win the game!”

Craig leaves.

“Well...that went well.”

“You’re joking, right?” Clyde asks tiredly, sinking down onto one of the wooden benches the locker room has in abundance. I take a seat behind him.

“Oh yeah,” I emphasize the ‘yeah’.

“Fuuuuuuck,” he drawls, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Join the club.”

“You have problems?” he glances up at me, ever the good friend.

“Stupid stuff,” I reply.

“Stupid love stuff, or stupid I can’t believe my best friends voted me homecoming stuff?” he prods.

“Stupid love stuff,” I sigh. It’s worthy to note that Clyde’s a good enough friend that he doesn’t ask who with.

That’s an excellent thing; I wouldn’t know the answer if he’d asked.

I’m sure I don’t like Kyle that way. If only Derek hadn’t freaked me out…

“You can run,” Clyde murmurs, “You’re really good at that. I mean on the field. Football,” he clarifies, “Not…well…I guess you can run pretty well from emotional crap too.”

“You’re pretty good at that yourself.”

“I know,” he breathes, looking more dejected than I’ve ever seen him, “I’m never going to catch a break, am I? I just wanna go to the fucking homecoming dance with Mandy. She’s pretty, spunky…sweet. Instead I’m stuck in this shit with Craig…I’m never going to get to be normal, am I?”

“Why would you want to be normal when you can be spectacular?”

“That’s a really gay question, Marsh.”

“It’s a really gay problem, Clyde,” I reply.

He nods. He knows I’m right. Even though it might be the first time in a long time that I have been.

* * *

 

Right before halftime is when things come to a head. Or should I say, right before halftime when Clyde gets body slammed so hard that I’m pretty sure they heard the thud in China.

Craig’s on the field before anybody else. I haven’t seen him move so quickly since we were on the team.

When Clyde’s carried away on a stretcher, Craig’s the one who’s holding his hand.

Don’t ask me what that means for them though; I’m going to have to wait ‘til after the game to ask.

Mostly because our vice principal just called my name up to the makeshift stage in the center of the football field. I’m about to be crowned King.

My first instinct is to run like hell. I don’t even have Craig or Clyde for moral support, because they’re with each other, every step of the way.

Shit, they wouldn’t support me anyway. This was one big joke to them. And now I’m standing on the thick green grass, walking towards the stage. Every eye in the stadium is on me.

No, they’re on Raven, the kid they think I am.

I guess I’m not helping things. Today, all I’m wearing is basic black. I didn’t know what else would match my plastic crown.

The vice principal, despite being a dick to me most of my life, is welcoming when I come up. He shakes my hand and says, “Mr. Marsh,” all polite-like.

The girls are here; sitting in a row in five metal fold up chairs. Wendy, Bebe, Mandy, Lola, and Henrietta. Lola’s in blue, and Henrietta’s in black. Mandy’s got her cheerleading outfit on; Wendy too. Bebe’s wearing something so tight and revealing I’m not sure if it can be called a dress; but it is shiny.

Our vice pulls me up to the microphone, the feedback ringing out to kill the audience’s ears.

“Now,” he speaks into the thing, his voice booming across the stadium, “You have a decision to make, as your vote has the majority pull out of the five queen nominations. Mr. Marsh, who are you going to pick?”

It’s more an exclamation that a question as he pulls back to let me have full control of the microphone. I stand there, awkward as ever, staring out into the sea of blue.

The thing is, my mind’s not even on it. I have to make a choice, but I can’t even decide. I’m thinking about what Derek said, and about my friends who got rushed off the field, and Kyle, who’s out there somewhere, watching, right now.

I look at Henrietta, the girl I used to think I loved. She may be a certified psychopath, but she was mine, once. We had good times, as much as Clyde and Craig try to force me to think I was just brainwashed into it. She’s looking at me now with hope in her eyes.

Then there’s Lola, who’s been after me from the very beginning. Jesus, she looks pretty. I may hate her, but the chick’s smart. Really smart. She runs our school newspaper almost singlehandedly. I don’t think I could ever be so capable.

Mandy’s sweet as apple pie, watching me with wide eyes. Hell, I should vote for her just for being the only girl who’s left me alone through this whole ordeal. I can just imagine how happy that’d make Craig.

Bebe’s not happening. No way no how. She glares at me when my gaze lands on her, and I glare right back. For what she did to Kyle, she should be lynched.

And then there’s Wendy. I remember her confronting me in Harbuck’s, and later at school.

She’s had a fucking rough time. She doesn’t need this; what she sees as the fate of her future resting in her ex’s hands. Because even after our bonding, I still hate her a little. I hate her for abandoning me. She was the one who was supposed to know me, more than anyone else. She was the one who was supposed to always be there.

Except…she wasn’t.

Supposed to always be there, I mean. Because the real person, the one who really abandoned me wasn’t Wendy at all.

It was…

My eyes land on a patch of people in the bleachers across from me. At first they’re just hazy colors, but then I start to see faces. And there’s one, right where I knew it would be. A guy, with bright green eyes and hair like fire. He’s sitting next to Kenny; even from here I can tell they’re holding hands.

And that hurts.

Because I don’t hate him. I was never able to, even though he was the one who left me all alone. He was the one who made me Raven. He was the one, the person I can’t force myself to let go.

I don’t hate him. If anything, I just want to be with him.

I open my mouth, speaking clearly into the mic.

“…Kyle.”


	18. Let Me Put My Hands Inside Your Clothes

“Uh,” our Vice Principal, a little man in a pin striped suit, hurries up to whisper, “You can’t choose someone who wasn’t nominated. Not that we don’t condone your sort…it’s just…”

He holds his hands helplessly in front of me, and I try not to process what he means by ‘my sort’.

“No-“ I say into the microphone, and then reel away from the static feedback, “Sorry, not what I meant.”

Kyle’s giving me the strangest look from the bleachers. Kenny’s arm wraps protectively around his shoulders, and Cartman notices. Finally. His expression turns dark.

“I um…I’m giving my vote to,” I glance back at the girls behind me, and they’re like aliens. Half evil, half vulnerable, and total mysteries to me. Even so, I make my choice, “Wendy.”

Wendy, for her part, looks ecstatic. She jumps to her feet, her teeny tiny cheerleading costume fluttering in the breeze like some kind of school spirit butterfly as she throws her arms around my neck, murmuring, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“You deserve it,” I reply back, and I mean it.

I watch as the vice stands on his tippy toes to put a tiara on Wendy’s head, announcing, “Long live the queen!”

It’s so campy I could die.

If I don’t shrivel away from pure humiliation first.

Kyle? What the hell was I thinking, saying Kyle’s name like that in front of thousands of people? Do I have a social death wish?

Wait, don’t answer that.

I was just so surprised to see him there, directly facing me. And I shouldn’t have been. He told me, happily, a few days back that he was going to be sitting in the front row, rooting for me. I knew he’d be there. So why? Why did I do it?

Among the cheering and clapping and foot stomping of most of my high school, I’m completely alone. I’m lost. Because I’m starting to figure some things out, and the closer I get to doing it, the more I wish I could stay ignorant.

I don’t like where my mind is headed.

At all.

After I’m ushered off the field and into the bleachers in true royal fashion, I barely pay attention to the second half of the football game. Even without Clyde, we lose hard, just like I predicted we would. Slap a turban on me and call me Miss Cleo, ‘cause I’m obviously psychic.

Following the game, students, teachers, and their families flood off the field. I stay. Leaning back on the cold metal of the bleachers, I hold a hand over my eyes watching the sky turn a hazy yellow and the grass turn golden as the sun surrenders its battle with the moon.

I hear this thud-thud-thud noise, and it takes me a minute to realize its clapping. Standing a few bleachers up is Derek, looking like the lord of night.

“Excellent show today. Really. Way to show Broflovski that huge boner you’ve got for him.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I snap, covering my eyes with the hand that had been protecting them from the light.

“Honest, Raven. I’m applauding your showmanship. You could be more grateful to your fans.”

“Didn’t we establish that I never wanted to speak to you again?”

“Did we?” Derek crosses his arms, “Sorry. Don’t recall.”

“Well I do. I’m reasonably sure I promised to castrate you,” I sit up, letting my arms go limp by my sides, “Are you here just to mock me, or does the thought of becoming a eunuch hold special appeal?”

 Derek opens his mouth, probably to say something witty and cutting, but I stop him, fake-gasping, “Wait- could it be Henrietta’s already done the job?”

“That bitch is never getting anywhere near my balls,” Derek spits, “I’m surprised you let her near yours.”

“The folly of youth, or some shit,” I shrug, and get to my feet, “I think I have a dance to go to.”

Derek raises an eyebrow, “Where you can embarrass yourself in front of Broflovski some more?”

“Maybe.”

His eyes are dark and full of something I only half understand, “Good luck with that. I’ll be at your favorite place, if you need to come crying to me later.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” I think about it and correct, “Actually, do it. Hold it ‘till you asphyxiate, asshole.”

“I like it when you talk dirty,” he calls after me, but I’m already trooping towards the gym. All I want is for this night to end.

* * *

 

I stomp my feet outside the entranceway of the gym, trying to rid myself of the powder snow that falls increasingly each day as we set into a true South Park autumn.

The first thing I have to do is dance with Wendy. Tradition, and all that. I search for her in the dim light of the huge building, feeling like I’m walking through wonderland. The place’s decked out like some kind of pumpkin patch, with hay bales and cheerful squash and gourds hanging everywhere. Wreathes of leaves and fairy lights dangle overhead.

Whoever was on the homecoming committee put a lot of work into turning the sweaty old place into Shangri La, and it’s a shame that most of the kids here are already too wasted on flat beer and flasks of Jim Beam to notice.

Shame I’m not popular enough to get invited to any tailgate parties, either, despite my crown. Flat beer sounds great right about now.

Speaking of crowns, I touch my head and realize that I was wearing it throughout my whole argument with Derek.

I move to take it off but a feather light touch stops me.

“You’ve got to wear it all night,” Wendy whispers covertly, her face glowing with happiness. She’s changed into a dress in royal purple, slinky in all the right places. She looks beautiful.

Her tiara sparkles in the light. I can almost pretend it’s not plasticized.

“Great,” I mutter back.

“Come on,” Wendy teases, “You’re not feeling the school spirit yet, Raven?”

I pump an arm in the air half heartedly and say “Rah, rah school. Yeah, that was it.”

She laughs, one of the first true laughs I’ve gotten from her in years, “So the next dance is ours. I told the VP to slow it down.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. He told me that he thought it was lovely that I was tolerant of your life choices.”

I groan, “Seriously? He said that?”

“Park County Regional is very pro-gay rights,” Wendy confides, twirling the skirt of her dress around her legs and laughing. I haven’t seen her so happy in ages. I think I made the right choice with the whole queen thing, even if I still think it’s a shallow, mindless ritual.

Plus I’m thankful as hell that it’s over and done with. Finally.

“Ha ha,” I roll my eyes, “You’re real funny.”

“I know,” she shrugs without a hint of modesty, “It’s a talent. So, why did you say Kyle’s name? Did you really think the crown would look better on a redhead?”

“No. I…I’m not sure,” I shift, searching out Craig and Clyde over her head; or anyone really, who can save me from this conversation.

“Come on, Stan. I’m joking. Whatever went down is your business.”

I’ll admit it. I’m surprised.

“Really?”

“Really,” Wendy laughs again, and that’s like three in as many minutes, “I’m not that nosy. Well, unless it pertains to me.”

“Oh. Um. Cool,” I’m feeling more awkward by the second, but before I can say anything else, the vice principal goes up on stage and announces that the king and queen are going to dance.

Everyone hoots and hollers and catcalls.

Wendy sort of sweeps herself into my arms as a slow song comes over the loudspeakers. She’s tinier than I remember, more fragile somehow. In the last few weeks she’s gone from being the big bad wolf to a girl; one I used to think I’d marry who then mercilessly shattered my heart, sure, but that doesn’t seem so important anymore. Even if we’re not friends again, even if we’ll never be friends again, I kind of feel like I have…closure.

Kyle’s a different story. As Wendy and I sway across the dance floor, I catch glimpses of him. Sometimes I think he’s looking at me with those electrifying green eyes of his, but it might be a hallucination.

It must be, ‘cause I catch a glimpse of Craig and Clyde too, tucked away in a corner, closer than I’ve ever seen them. Maybe even smiling. That would be a real miracle, so it’s probably my delirium.

When Wendy and I stop dancing, I feel like the entire room is spinning. I see Henrietta for a second, glaring at me like she might honestly kill me.

Then her face wavers and splits in two, and I’m spinning again. That’s when I realize that I haven’t eaten since lunch. Time to go search out the refreshment table for something to make the growling in my stomach stop. Can’t prevent my own murder if I’m not nourished enough to think straight, right?

Of course, it’s there I find Kenny, Cartman, and Kyle.

Cartman makes a joke that begins with ‘hey fucker’ and ends with ‘fag’, and I’m not sorry that I zone out and miss the middle as I’m sure it was equally as derogatory as the beginning and end. Kenny’s glare towards me is half-hearted at best; he’s distracted trying to hold Kyle’s hand, and for the first time I’ve ever seen, Kyle’s trying to wriggle out of his grasp.

Those hypnotic eyes of his meet mine and he says shyly, “Hi, Stan.”

I’m not used to this Kyle. If he was at a loss, fumbling for words, I’d get it. But this is different. This is timid Kyle, a phrase which isn’t exactly made up of two words I’d normally put together.

He looks like I’ve robbed him of speech, or worse, he doesn’t want to tell me whatever he wants to say. He doesn’t even want to try. It’s disconcerting.

“Hey,” I shove my hands deep in the pockets of my black jeans, wishing I’d dressed more formally. It is homecoming. Wendy’s right. I should have school spirit.

Maybe then he wouldn’t be looking at me like that.

Okay, that’s bull. Kyle is definitely not judging me based on my school spirit, or lack thereof. I’m acting like a total wimp.

I’ve been putting off really interacting with Kyle since the whole Kenny thing began, and maybe it’s time I get over it. Even if the thought of them touching makes me physically sick.

I’m silently cheering when Kyle evades yet another of Kenny’s casual touches.

“Dude, can I talk to you?” I ask, and I’m not sure where the words bubble up from, but okay.

“Sure,” Kyle gives me this half-grin. See? He doesn’t hate me. Easy peasy. Now if only my heart will stop beating so loudly that I can’t hear myself think. It’s not like I have anything to be nervous about.

I glance up at Kyle. His smile. Those eyes. Yeah. Right. Absolutely nothing to fear here.

We walk out to the parking lot, hiding ourselves amidst old beat up Chevys and Fords.

We’re all American in this part of Colorado.

I end up leaning against my car, parked near the back where the woods start. The green and white license plate of my shit-mobile is dented and muddy and digs into my calves. Kyle pulls out a cigarette from his blazer and it’s only then I realize he’s got this prep school thing down; jeans and a v neck sweater and a gray blazer. He looks too snazzy for this town, man.

I watch him light the cigarette, watch his lips as he sucks in some carcinogens and blows them back out into my face. His eyes are distant, like he’s only half here. The smile is gone. 

“So what did you want to talk about?”

“Dude. You know,” I accuse, because he does.

“Stan, sorry, but silver does nothing for my skin tone, even if it is plastic,” he touches his hair, like he’s got an imaginary crown there.

“Har dee har har,” I roll my eyes, “Yeah. I wanted to apologize for that.”

He shifts from foot to foot, “Well. Don’t. It’s okay.”

“But it’s not.”

“C’mon, man. We’re friends. It’s in the past.”

Yeah, the past three hours or so. Jesus.

“Kyle, I called your name for a reason.”

Something flares up in his expression, even if it’s only for a second. His voice is low when he growls, “No. You didn’t.”

“I did,” I insist.

“You really, really didn’t." The smile reappears, uncertain but encouraging. "Let’s just forget this and go back inside.”

He turns to walk away, and I can’t let him. I grab his arm, pulling him back towards me. He stumbles into my chest, and even though he’s not that much taller, I’m leaning against the trunk of my car and looking up at him. His face in brushed in moonlight, made of shadows. For the first time in my life, I get some of that poetry Henrietta always made me read.

He straightens till we’re no longer touching, but he doesn’t pull completely away. The space between our bodies; it barely exists. Kyle’s as close as he can be without making physical contact. I can feel his breath heating my lips.

It would be so easy to cross the distance to his. Barely even a twitch of my neck, really.

I can’t help myself. He’s there. And he’s all I ever wanted for that time he was gone.

He’s Kyle.

Shit.

“How are things with Kenny?” I ask, because goddamnit, I’m scared. I’ve never felt so conflicted in my life.

“Alright,” Kyle replies, and for a second I think he’s going to widen the distance between us, but he stays completely still. His hands brace himself on either side of my hips, making misty palm prints against the faded, scraped paint of the car, “I don’t know. It’s all kind of an experiment, right? I love Ken like a brother. Something still doesn’t click- but like, it’s better than it was with Bebe. Maybe things are never supposed to fit the way I think they should. Maybe things are never supposed to be right.”

The way he’s looking at me is so frickin’ intense that I think I might dissolve into thin air from the sheer power of it. It might be nice to just disappear.

His stare gets harder, and I’m staring back, and for that split second in time, we’re epic. We’re every love story you ever heard of. We’re Romeo and fucking Juliet, because my heart stops in my chest, and there’s no one else alive. It’s me and him and the slick cold metal car and the night chilling us to the bone, and us just not caring.

Our lips brush so gently I’m not even sure it really happens.

I guess it must though, because Kyle’s warmth is gone.

The way he’s staring at me now, in wide eyed horror is kind of a clue in. He backs away, weaving through all those American made cars, straight into a familiar blond. Kenny’s about three rows back, and I think he’s seen everything. His arms wrap around Kyle to guide him back towards the gym, and the look the guy throws over his shoulder at me is a warning to leave town if I don’t want to be disemboweled and-hell.

Now the world’s back. Now I’m just another dumb hick, sitting in his school parking lot and wishing it wasn’t so fucking cold.

* * *

 

You could probably account me going to Coffee Blue to the fact that I’m miserable, and it’s the one place that makes me feel human. Yeah. You could do that.

It has nothing at all to do with Derek’s words earlier.

He did say he’d be in my favorite place, and sure enough, he’s reclining on one of the lumpy couches, talking to some prick who looks like he has a masters in bullshitting his way into teenagers’ pants, but I guess I shouldn’t talk. Derek’s been all open and sinister about wanting in mine, and I’m here anyway.

Not that I’m letting him in my pants. I just want someone to talk. For real.

When Derek sees me, he pushes the college guy away and makes room. With a raised brow he drawls, “Back for more? I knew you couldn’t resist.”

I make this noise, one that I’ve never heard before, and even though I said I wanted to talk, I’m yanking Derek’s head towards me, mashing my mouth up against his with tongue and teeth and saliva. I’m raw and I’m lost and I still can’t figure out why.

Derek’s accepts the kiss without hesitation, and next thing I know he’s pulling me off the couch, towards one of Coffee Blue’s single person bathrooms. Once we’re in he’s grinding up against me like a cat in heat, and I can feel him hard and ready against my leg.

I’m fucking sick in the head. Mentally ill. Time to check into the loony bin, right now.

Instead I lean into his kiss, pulling his neck roughly towards me so that his hips smash together with mine. The friction is delicious.

A breathy moan spurts from his lips, and I feel like letting loose a string of creative expletives, because no matter how you cut it that moan sounds nothing like Kyle.

That’s when lightning strikes.

I’m an idiot. It makes sense now. Why I did all of this; why I’ve been so desperate to get that damned Jew back in my life.

My chest squeezes painfully.

I can’t breathe.

I fucking love Kyle, and I can’t breathe.

So I kiss Derek harder, to make sure he can’t make any more goddamned noise and pray that I’ll pass out from lack of oxygen before this goes any further.


	19. What Does It Take To Be A Superhero In My World?

On the mistake scale of one to ten, having sex with Derek in the dirty, disgusting bathroom of Coffee Blue scores a fifteen.

I’m so skeeved out I don’t even want to think about it. I don’t want to think about anything.

Clyde and Craig call me about a million times this weekend, and I don’t pick up.

Maybe ‘cause I don’t want to see their stupid fucking smiles. What right do they have to be smiling, anyway? What right does anyone have? Life’s shit, and then we die. One day, yeah, I’m going to be buried under the ground, and worms will eat my face, and that day can’t come soon enough.

The logical part of my mind is screaming that I need to suck it up and stop drowning in self pity, but the logical part of my mind sounds a lot like Kyle Broflovski, so I tell it to shut the hell up.

Kyle, with his stupid face, and his stupid eyes, and his stupid, stupid neurotic self. He hates me, he likes Bebe, and then no, he likes Kenny. He needs to get his shit together, man.

Says the boy lying on his bed at four in the afternoon on a Sunday, staring at the ceiling like it’s got the answers to all my questions.

Hell, I don’t even know what exactly my questions are.

When did this start? When did these fucking feelings creep up on me? It’s not like I can do anything about them. It’s not like I can compete with Kenny or Cartman, even if I wanted to…which I don’t. But even if I did, I wouldn’t win. Kyle didn’t choose me. He didn’t decide to be on my side all those years ago. He was my best friend, and he abandoned me. If I told him about this freakish desire rising up inside me, one that I don’t even understand, he'd definitely never talk to me again.

I probably won’t the opportunity to talk to him anymore, anyway.

What was I thinking when I kissed him, or he kissed me, or- GOD. I can’t even figure out who instigated the kiss, no matter how many times I replay it in my head.

It had to be me. Nothing else accounts for the sheer terror I saw when Kyle looked at me. It was enough to make me want to slice my eyes out with razor blades, just to make the image go away.

Slicing out my eyes with razor blades…where have I heard that before?

My crumpled ‘Nevermore’ shirt lies on the ground. I’ve never been able to force myself to throw it out; maybe because it stands for everything I lost, before this year, when I got it all back…for a minute.

The shirt’s about five sizes too small for me, compared to the two sizes too small it had been last time I wore it; the day Kyle and I got in that friendship destroying fight. I haven’t worn it since.

I stare at it and an idea forms. I pick up another black shirt, some safety pins, and a pair of scissors covertly snatched from the kitchen. I’m no expert at home ec, but once I cut out the graphic and pin it onto the other shirt, it looks half decent. I slide it over my skin like a safety blanket.

Later that day, I walk into the bathroom to take a piss and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My thick, dark hair shadows my eyes, which have dark purple bruises beneath them from two long, sleepless nights. My face looks drawn, and pale, and my lips look are chapped.

I look like that kid, the one who fell into the abyss and never managed to fight his way back out. No one can pull him back.

That kid everyone’s spent years speculating I am.

Pathetic. Who would want that kid right there?

Certainly not Kyle Broflovski.

* * *

 

Monday finds me avoiding my best friends, Kyle, and the world.

I don’t answer any questions class. I don’t do anything.

Tuesday brings more of the same. A week passes, and Kyle never seeks me out.

Craig and Clyde do. They confront me in the parking lot after school about why I’m being such a little bitch. I don’t answer, and eventually Craig scoffs and tells me to come find them when I get my head out of my ass. I pick up the half smoked cigarette Craig threw to the ground before leaving and stick it between my lips. My lungs burn as I inhale, and it’s the closest I can get to dying.

Derek finds me after class on Wednesday, a week and a half after that first indiscretion of ours. He’s mass and force and velocity, and his body covers mine in the deserted locker room while the cheerleaders practice out in the gym. I can hear their voices, warbled and warped by the metal lockers. He takes away my identity and remakes me again and again.

Another week passes, and it’s the same old same old.

Derek and I fuck in the back seat of my car on a Saturday night. When we finish, he looks at me, and I can see it in his eyes.

I’m not Stan anymore. I’m Raven.

And even Derek finds me pathetic now.

* * *

 

Leave it to my only sibling to decide today’s the day to be sisterly. Shelley’s a force of nature; and she’s intent on being the tornado that’s gonna tear the tin roof off my house of misery.

Normally I’d say that it’s a refreshing change from all the times she’s decided torture is an acceptable way of showing affection. Now I just want to tell her to fuck off.

I don’t, only because it’s a good way to lose my balls.

I like my balls. I’m really fond of them. I’d find being separated from them inhumane.

So instead of flipping her the bird and storming away, which is my current preferred course of action, I sit on the couch, where she’s watching some dumb reality show.

Shelley crosses her arms, and I can just see the glint in her eye. You know, the glint that says ‘it’s good to be queen’? Yeah, my sister invented that glint.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, turd?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I reply in a monotone.

“You’re normally such a spaz. Now you’ve been acting like more of a loser than usual. What. Is. Going. On?” she demands, her voice level, but her glare deadly.

“I was homecoming king.”

“Whoopee for you. I imagine you liked looking like a fag, so that can’t be what has you crying like a little wuss,” she sneers.

I roll my eyes, “What if I really am a fag? That could be the final insult that drives me to suicide.”

“Puh-leeze,” Shelley runs a hand through her hair, her eyes never leaving the television, “Someone like you would never kill yourself, no matter how many times I try to make you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, despite being a cum waffling shit eating cretin of a little brother, you’re…” Here she gulps and her eyelids flicker shut like she’s having trouble saying what she needs to, “kind of smart, and you’re strong for a pansy ass bandit.”

I don’t know what to say. “Was that a compliment?”

“No,” she snaps, looking more intrigued by the TV than me, “Not at all. Just because you wouldn’t off yourself doesn’t mean you’re not a total pussy.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“It’s true. You can’t even come out of the closet straight up.”

I didn’t expect that.

“Wait, what?”

“Turd, I know you’re gay. You’ve always been gay. For that Broflovski kid. But no, you have to fuck that prom queen wannabe, and then that uber goth bitch, and you still can’t fricking figure out you’d be happier taking a dick up your ass.”

“Shelley!” I protest, even though she has no idea how right she is.

“What? Oh, right, sorry. A Jewish dick up your ass. You’ve wanted to screw Kyle every which way but North since you first figured out how to masturbate, and you can’t even tell him because he won’t even talk to your moronic self,” Shelley says easily. She finally looks at me and takes in the astonished expression on my face, “What? I can’t be observant?”

“No. You can’t. You’re my big sister. And everything you’re saying is wrong.”

“Is it?” she raises an eyebrow, “Really? So you didn’t say Kyle’s name during that whole fagtastic homecoming extravaganza? Oh yeah, dude, I heard about that.”

I can’t even think of something to say to that. How does she know this stuff?

“You always back down, take the easy route,” Shelley snorts, “The only times you’ve ever stood up for yourself is when somebody else is at stake.”

Like Kyle, are the words left unsaid. Like all those times he needed my help when we were friends, and I’d do anything he asked, even if I would never have done the same if it had been my problem.

If my parents had moved me to San Francisco when we were nine, no way would I have strummed out a song good enough to move me back. I would have just accepted it.

If I’d been dying in the hospital, no way would I have tricked anyone into giving me a kidney, not because I was sick but…because I’m not that important.

I’ve never seen myself as important. It’s not a self-esteem thing…it’s a fact of life.

“If you don’t have the balls to fight for what you want, you don’t deserve a love life.”

Shelley looks back at the TV, and I can tell the subject is closed.

Still, I can’t help myself. I venture, “Are you ever going back to school?”

“Didn’t mom and dad tell you, turd? I got expelled. Turns out having sex with a professor in the dean’s office is a big no no. Lucky you, you’re stuck with me.”

“Can they do that?”

“…only if you get caught doing it three times. With three different professors.”

Then she sucker punches me in the gut.

* * *

 

When I go to school the following Monday, I feel different. I don’t know why. I’m wearing my Nevermore shirt and avoiding my friends, and my heart’s stopping every time I catch a glance of red hair in the hallway, but…I feel stronger.

Shelley may not give great pep talks, but she’s my sister, and somehow, I feel like she lent me some of her strength.

Because she is strong. All jokes…I hope they were jokes, anyway…about sex with her professors aside, she’s one of the strongest girls I know. After all, she grew up with our parents’ nonsense, and with a weak ass brother like me…she’s always had to take charge. And I know, even strung amidst all those pointed insults of hers, she might maybe possibly love me.

Derek ignores me in the hallway, dismissing me. Craig and Clyde scurry past in the lunch room. Kyle avoids my gaze in physics class.

It doesn’t hurt as much.

I get a jibe from some jock about how pretty I looked in my tiara, and right in front of my math teacher, I show him how pretty he looks with my fist in his teeth.

It’s the most passion I’ve been able to wrangle in days.

I walk into lunch detention the following day with a smile on my face.


	20. Cursed To Believe

Derek tries to fuck me in the bathroom today after detention. He tells me he can see the fire in my eyes again, like I have flames hiding somewhere inside when all I’ve really got is the frickin’ net of confusion, like a spider web someone crumples and knots with pieces of debris caught inside.

I think all he can see is that I returned all the obscene gestures he made to me during detention with glares. He’d gotten caught trying to spray paint something on the side of the school with Georgie, who sat through most of the punishment with an apathetic expression and a book of Poe’s poetry.

When I refuse sex, politely, with my fist in Derek’s face, he says, “God Raven, do you have to be such a prick?”

I just stare at him, seething, seeing red and crimson and scarlet and all the variations of a bloodbath if I were to punch Derek again and make his nose bleed down his shirt. Except the black clothes would absorb all the blood, and I wouldn’t get to see this techni-color vision I’ve got behind my eyelids, every time I blink.

Derek smirks and purrs, “Maybe you do when you’ve got one the size of yours. _Compensating_?”

He blows the word out, like smoke, like he’s exhaling some invisible carcinogens, and it makes me think of Kyle.

Kissing him tasted vaguely like cigarettes.

And oh God, I think hysterically, why do they even call it a prick? Like a pin prick, like a tiny little stab when really the only thing thinking with my dick has ever gotten me is gaping, giant wounds in my chest; veritable fucking holes.

Obviously I’m still a little bit messed up.

I flip Derek off, which is the weakest comeback ever, and I escape the smells of piss and stale weed that make up the boys' bathroom in the west wing of Park County Regional.

You would think that getting assaulted would dim my mood, but I’m feeling pretty good. I’ve got a jaunty step; that’s what my mom would say, ‘cause she always uses outdated expressions like that.

There’s a difference between feeling good and feeling happy, of course. My downward spiral into the abyss of pussy-fagdom has stopped, at least temporarily, but that doesn’t change the facts. I’ve got a thing for Kyle, for reasons completely beyond me. I mean, okay, he was my best friend for like, fourteen years, but the guy’s kind of a dick. He’s hot-headed and stubborn as hell. He has a thing for total skanks.

Think Bebe, and alternatively, Kenny. The blond may not be a whore, but he smells kind of skanky. 

What? I’m getting over traumatic events, people. My rapier wit isn’t quite up to par, okay?

But really, he does.

Now I’m just being petty.

I shove my hands deep in my pockets and stop.

The hallways are empty. It’s a little creepy; like the zombie apocalypse came and went and now I’m the last man standing. At least that would solve the Kyle problem.

Seriously. What is it about him? I wanted him back as a friend because I’ve never clicked with anyone else like Kyle. It made sense, when you looked at the Before Picture.

Before shit went bad and we splintered like decaying wood.

It wasn’t about his bad traits; it was about all the fun we’d had together. Nights sleeping at each others’ houses and dreaming of ways to be better than this town, to be superstars in a faraway land. Days dicking around, acting like our dreams had already come true and we fucking ruled the world. And that time, somewhere near sunset, where reality would set in and we’d realize that hey, it was okay to just be two idiotic teenage boys, to be Stan and Kyle. We didn’t have to rule the world, because we had each other.

Super best friends, ‘til the end.

When the bestie thing went down the drain, obviously I wanted to get it back. Who wouldn’t want something like that back? I didn’t even have Kenny or Cartman to back me up. My After Picture was a no-man’s-land of despair.

Craig and Clyde-shit, I have a lot to make up to them- they’re normal friends. They’re not the kind you spend evenings sitting on the roof of abandoned trailers making dumb shapes out of stars with, comfortable in each others’ silence. They’re not the kind you tell all your worries and your fears to. No, they’re the kind of guys you get slurpees at seven eleven with and play dirty, illiterate scrabble with at Coffee Blue. And I love ‘em for it, but I don’t…love them.

Or jack off to them in the shower, so thank god for small favors.

 Fuck. If life gets any more complicated my head might just explode.

The worst part is that it’s my fault. I let myself somehow fall for Kyle because…because he wasn’t an ass to me, even when everyone else was. Because when I wanted to be friends with him again, he was kind of happy.

Because hanging out with him again felt right, and I haven’t felt right in a long fucking time.

Those aren’t good reasons to love anyone.

A little bit of kindness, of being connected to someone, and I fall like a stone?

I’m obviously mentally ill and no one decided to mention it to me.

Except Shelley, but she doesn’t count.

The question, I guess, is what I’m going to do about all of it. It’s hanging there, in front of me, taunting me. Shelley warned me that it’s time to do something for myself, and yeah, at the time it made perfect sense.

Now it feels like if I do what I want to do; if I fight for Kyle, that it’ll make me selfish. I don’t even know for sure if I want him for the right reasons, for the reasons they write crappy song lyrics about and go to wars for.

On top of that, I mean, haven’t I been living the past four years for myself? Going to Coffee Blue and wearing black and making my parents miserable?

Except…no, that can’t be right.

The very definition of doing something for myself would be doing something to make myself happy. All those things have done for me are, I don’t know, draw out my pathetic angst? Like, those were the things Kyle exiled me to.

All I’ve been doing this whole time is going through the motions of life. Every day I’m floating through this fog, and I’m content enough doing it, but I’m not alive.

I’m a parody of a fucking person.

So maybe that’s what Shelley really meant. I have to stop acting out real life, and start living it.

God, who knew my sister was so deep?

The only way to do this thing is to take control.

I’m not so good at that. At least, not where my own life is concerned.

Part of the reason is probably because I zone out so much. It’s a dangerous habit. Especially when you’re standing in the middle of school hallways.

I get a hard elbow to my gut.

Cartman’s got a surprising amount of muscle packed away beneath all that blubber.

“Aye! Fag, move it!” He spits the words, but they lack the usual vehemence that lurks behind some of his more creative insults. Plus he kind of looks…puzzled. And…mournful?

I rub my stomach and glare at him, muttering, “What the fuck crawled up your ass, Eric?”

If looks could kill, I’d-well, hell, I’d have been underground a long time ago, but this would probably have me rolling in my grave.

“First name usage?” he seethes, “You want your jaw in pieces, _Stanley_?”

Point taken. I hold up my hands and rejoin, “Fine. What crawled up your ass, _Cartman_? Was it a person? Your butt’s so big you probably wouldn’t notice.”

Cartman shoots me a look that’s less menacing and more curious, “Not on your best form today, are you, hippie?”

“Yeah, well,” I shove my hands in my pockets, “Same could be said about you. Truce?”

“Not on your life.”

I expected as much. I prompt, “So?”

“So what, fag?”

“Seriously dude, please don’t make me go through the what-crawled-up-your-derriere spiel again. I don’t have the energy for it.”

“I don’t like you.”

“You don’t like anyone.”

“Exactly. Do I need another reason to be in a bad mood?”

“Um, yes. Not liking people normally makes you happy, bitchface.”

“Bitchface. Really, that’s poetry, Raven. Fucking poetry.”

“Alright. I don’t know why I bothered,” I do an about-face so I can walk back down the hall when Cartman calls out to me.

“Wait.”

It’s less a call and more a command, actually.

I cringe, thinking about all the students in all their classes, surrounding us. I’m surprised a teacher didn’t find me spacing in the middle of the hallway, and lucky as fuck.

“What?” I don’t turn around, clenching and unclenching my fists. I don’t really care what’s got Cartman’s quadruple extra large briefs in a twist, to be honest. But he’s not man enough to attack me ninety five percent of the time without provocation, and I’ve never seen that expression on his face before.

Curiosity is overpowering sometimes.

“You and Kahl are like, butt-buddies now, right?”

My voice catches, “W-why do you say that?”

“You guys spend all that time together, and y’know,” I can hear all one thousand pounds of him shifting behind me, blatantly uncomfortable rustling accompanying it, “So I thought you might know…”

“Know what, fatass?”

He makes a weak noise of indignation. It’s killing him to bend to my level, I can tell.

“Know what’s going on with Kahl and Kenneh.”

I snort. Go figure.

Spinning around, I demand, “Do you want me to draw you a picture?”

He actually seems a little taken aback by my tone, “No. I am intelligent, thank you very much.”

I can’t help it. I chuckle a little, this bitter, rotten sound that doesn’t even sound like me, “Maybe if you were a little more intelligent, you’d know that Kenny’s banging Kyle.”

Not strictly true, but okay.

Cartman’s eyes darken. It’s like the expression he wore at the football game now, but ten times more evil.

It pisses me off.

“You’re sulking over that? You didn’t know? They’ve been all over each other, asshole!” I’m yelling, and I know a teacher’s going to come running at any second, but I can’t keep my voice down.

He’s studying me, like I’m a science experiment, all panting and angry. He’s got alien eyes, and they’re growing colder by the second.

Finally he says in his little boy whine, “One of these days, Marsh, you’re going to learn to watch that insolent mouth of yours.”

Now he’s the one who’s walking away. I scream after him, “What does that even mean?”

No answer.

That would be too easy.

I can’t escape to the boy’s bathroom. Derek’s there with his hands and his languid smiles and his constant arousal. I can’t go to class without risking trouble. And I can’t keep standing in the hallway like some kind of social reject. One lunch detention was fine, but another might get me so bored that I’ll stab my eyeballs out with a pencil.

I like my eyes. They let me see.

So I make a break for my car.

Undetected, so go me!

Yeah, my enthusiasm is forced, if you can’t tell.

Once I’m sitting in the front seat, all there is to do is think. If I do that, we’re back to the stabbing scenario, except in the heart and with a considerably bigger amount of blood. There’s nowhere in town I want to go by myself, and I’m not ready to text Craig or Clyde yet. There’s an off chance they might be playing hooky too, but I’m not entirely sure they’d answer if I sent them anything.

I feel like a balloon ready to burst.

There’s only one thing I can do when I’m this amped up, this mixed up.

The drive to Stark’s Pond is accompanied by loud, wailing music that drowns out every thought that dares enter my brain. I sing along, half off-key. My voice is kind of harsh, a little raw. Kyle always liked it. He said one day we’d start a band, a real band, better than that gig we did in grade school.

I don’t want to dwell on that.

This whole day, this whole time since the dance has been like some kind of meditate-on-how-I-fucked-up-again exercise, and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of going through the motions. I’m sick of feeling like time froze that day in Kyle’s room right before freshman year.

_If you’re going to go be that mopey ass Raven again, maybe you should find a new best friend.”_

It’s a still frame in my mind that’s influenced everything I’ve done up until now. I’m an ice sculpture, standing in Kyle’s room, waiting for him to take those words back. For the past four years, that’s where the real me has existed, the Stan Marsh that isn’t Raven.

Now it feels like that sculpture’s melting, and the world’s coming into focus. This thing with Kyle, this new thing that I’m circling in my head is epic. It’s bigger than friendship-ending words. It’s bigger than me. I can ruin it, or I can let it ruin me again. Or I can fucking do something.

I thought I wasn’t weak anymore, since that day, but in retrospect, I’m no better than an insect. I let Kyle clip my wings over and over again.

Am I going to let him do it to me this time?

I stretch, ice and snow soaking through my jeans. I have a pair of sneakers in the trunk, and I slip them on. The whole of Stark’s lies out in front of me. It’s like tundra, man, beyond those trees. Flat-land, barren fields stretching into the horizon.

I start running.

This is what I liked about football. The stretch and burn of my muscles until I hit a wall. Then pushing through it, ‘cause I have no other choice. Endorphins, adrenaline, shit. It’s a rush.

I like the feeling of sweat running down my sides, pooling near the small of my back. I can feel it soaking my hair, settling in the seams of my pasty-ass elbows. My jeans stick to me uncomfortably, but I don’t care.

I’m going to run into the sky and disappear.

Maybe I’ll find a solution up there. Be selfish, like Shelley said, or keep living a façade.

Hours, days, years later I fall, exhausted into the driver’s seat of my car. I don’t even know what time it is. I fish my cell out of the cup holder, cringing at the sticky pull I feel before I lift it away. Clyde must have spilled soda on the plastic contraption a while back and failed to tell me. He always fails to tell me when he fucks with my car.

The LCD display reads one missed call.

I can tell you who it’s from before I even click on it. I know. I’m psychic, man.

You wanna know too?


	21. The Soul Of Someone Once Close To Me

Harbuck’s is neutral territory. It’s fancy coffee and streamlined computers and haunting background music, and that’s kind of the way I like it.

So when Kyle walks in just as I’m tying on my apron, I feel myself deflate. All the courage I’ve managed to work up today floats away.

Hell, if my courage took on the form of a bunny shaped cloud, I’d say it fucking scampered.

It’s like seeing him a different light. Wiry muscles, floppy red curls, a wry half-smile. I think he’s some kind of boy-god. I’m watching him stomp snow off his boots onto the black rubber mat right inside the door. He levels that smirk at me, and yeah, he’s straight out of some Norse myth. A trickster. Loki.

When you start seeing your friends as larger than life, as gods, you know your sanity’s worth questioning.

I duck behind the counter, even though it’s beyond too late to hide. Hell, I’m the one who told him to meet me here. He already saw me, even.

Funny how none of that makes me want to stop hiding any less.

Christophe, at my side, gives me a look of pure disdain. He’s on the phone, getting ready to start his shift with one hand while the other cradles plastic to his cheek.

I can hear the British voice on the other end of the line, the, “What the fuck are you laughing at, arsehole? I’m attempting to be serious here!”

“Non, non,” Christophe replies, “the pussy-boy I work wiz is ‘iding be’ind ze counter like a coward.”

I might as well name the voice inside my head Ze Mole; they seem to be berating me for the same things.

“Thanks a fucking lot,” I hiss, then maturely mock his accent, “I’m not ‘iding. I’m looking for caramel syrup.”

“Really?” a voice cuts in, “Because it looks like you’re hiding.”

Eek. Kyle.

Why did I tell him to come again?

Every instinct I have is screaming, ‘RUN’.

Fuck my life.

Slowly I grip the counter, rising up on my heels so that I’m eye level with him, a cobra being charmed out of a vase.

“How you doing?” he asks, smile concealing whatever I’m positive is lurking behind his eyes. I peer closer, hoping I’ll spot a hint of what he’s hiding, but I come up short. It feels like I’m looking at a picture, flat, two dimensional.

Knock, knock, Kyle’s not home.

“Hey, Christophe. I’m going to take a break,” I murmur.

“You just got ‘ere,” he protests, pulling the phone from his ear, “And you were ten minutes late.”

“Yeah,” I lower my head in apology, but give him this little shake that means I’m not going to back down on this. I glance at Kyle again, judging, estimating, “It’ll only take fifteen anyway.”

He mutters some curses in French, or if it’s not, it’s some language that sounds like gibberish to me. The guy on the other end of the phone, clear as day, yells in an offended voice, “Watch your mouth, Christophe!”

“Make me,” Christophe practically purrs in reply, and oh, I think I liked it better when cell phones didn’t have such clear reception and loud speakers.

Kyle gives me a look, clearly commiserating.

I don’t return it. I’m trying to get myself ready for fifteen minutes of bull, because that’s what I’m pretty sure I’m about to get.

There are some black leather couches in the far corner of the store, tucked away next to shelves of mugs with script that attempts to be witty but fails so badly we’ve had to mark them down below clearance. Even for a dollar, no one’s buying.

I sit in one of the big comfy arm chairs, ignoring the space Kyle’s trying to make for me on the couch. Reclining back, I put my arms behind my head and my feet up on the coffee table. On anyone else, this kind of body language would indicate relaxation. On me, it’s battle-ready.

I’m acting like Kyle’s one of them, one of the people who alienated and abused me for the past few years. This is my don’t-give-a-fuck, ready-to-be-kicked-while-I’m-already-down posture. I think Kyle knows it too. His shoulders slump and he leans towards me a little, like he’s begging for forgiveness.

But there’s still nothing in his eyes. Not for the first time, I’m wondering when I stopped being able to read him.

“So, the other night,” he sighs, rakes a hand through his curls, and sighs again.

“The other night,” I prompt, not planning on making this easy on him.

He doesn’t deserve easy. If I let him avoid the subject like he’s been doing, like he did about our friendship, and like I know he wants to about this, I’ll just be enabling him.

The worst part is, I do want to let him avoid this- god, do I want to. We could let this whole thing go, and we could pretend everything’s back to normal. It’s Kyle, and he’s…he’s late night sleepovers and dicking around on the basketball court. He’s kosher food and complaints about his loudmouth mother. He’s always standing up for what’s right, except for…well, when it comes to me.

I wonder why that is?

“Stan, how long have you been feeling…uh, that way about me?”

I want to ask ‘what way?’ I want to tell him he’d delusional and that whatever he thinks he imagined at homecoming actually didn’t happen.

Or better yet, it was a prank. A joke.

But.

No more running away.

“Maybe…I don’t know, around when you started talking to me again for real?” I take a deep breath, rolling my eyes up to the ceiling for something to focus on other than Kyle’s intense eyes, his grimace, “Or even before that.”

“Stan…I’m sorry man,” Kyle’s tone of voice begs for an out, begs for me to acknowledge how much this all sucks, “but you’ve got to understand that I’ve never thought about you like that.”

I let myself laugh, humorless, bitter, because-oh, this hurts more than I initially thought it would.

All the raging testosterone inside me is begging, pleading to just sock him in the face. Wipe that smug smile off his lips. Make him hurt like he’s hurting me.

It’s his tone that forces me to unclench my fist; that pleading edge of it.

But when I tear my eyes from the ceiling, Kyle’s not smiling. He’s barely even making an expression at all.

We could be talking about fucking algebra.

I lean forward, on the offensive now, curious, “Really Kyle? Really? Not even once?”

The nervous bob of his Adam’s apple is the only indication he gives that maybe I’ve hit a nerve.

“N-no,” he murmurs, and now he’s looking at the same spot on the ceiling I was.

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not!”

“You can’t tell me you’ve had dirty thoughts about Kenny and not me.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean,” I lunge forward so that my knees are touching his, my face hovering inches away, “That Kenny’s not me. You think he makes you happy? Happy’s not even close to what I can make you feel.”

I stare at him, silently applauding myself.

That’s when I realize; he’s scared. He’s scared of what I think, of how I’ll react.

Which means he cares about me. I got my initial wish; this is proof that we’re friends again when everything else wasn’t. Real, honest to god friends.

He reels back, pressing his arms and back into the fabric of the couch, trying to be as far away from me as he can manage right this minute, “God, Stan. You’ve changed so fucking much! You can’t do this to me- you barely even know who I am anymore!”

That I didn’t see coming.

“So show me, Kyle.” I’m biting my tongue because I’m so sure he’s going to bolt.

“I-“ he looks at me, his eyes bright, “Dude, I can’t do this.”

Yeah. He’s off like a fucking deer.

“This has got to stop,” Kyle murmurs, standing, staring me dead in the eyes, “I think maybe we need some space. It’ll give you time to get over- whatever this is.”

And by we, he means himself. He needs space, because- what, I’m figuring him out? Even just a little bit? Figuring out what exactly?

“I’m not going to get over this,” I tell him, returning his look tenfold. For a second I think he might be shaking.

It’s hard to tell when he’s walking away.

I watch Kyle’s back as he practically runs out of the store. Then I check my watch. Fifteen minutes on the dot.

When I get back up to the counter, Christophe whistles and goes, “I may ‘ave to reevaluate my respect for you.”

“Oh?”

“You ‘ad that boy running scared,” he grins, like that’s the best measure of my personality he’s ever seen. Hell, it’s Christophe, so maybe it is.

I don’t tell him that I would have given anything for Kyle to have just stayed and talked to me.

* * *

 

After work’s over, I go to Coffee Blue. You’d think that working in a coffeehouse all day long would sort of turn me off of them, but the difference between Harbuck’s and here is night and day.

Anyway, I’m here for a reason. I’m steeling myself in preparation for apologizing.

It’s not something I’m wonderful at. It could be said I’m not actually wonderful at a lot of things.

I’m trying here, okay?

This day’s just one long, bumpy road of shit-on-Stan, but I’ve gotta think everyone has a day like this at least once in their lives.

Right?

Pretend for me.

I’ve been waiting for a while; so long that I’m not even sure I should still be sitting here. But I have to believe that something good’s going to come out of my new and improved attitude. That the fight and detention and my rejecting Derek and my run down Stark’s and my talk with Kyle were all just building me up for something good.

I hope.

My eyes flicker closed, and that’s when I feel the weight of the table shift and hear the scrape of metal chair legs.

When I open my eyes, they’re sitting in front of me.

“Still smell like a fruit cocktail, I see,” Craig drawls, ruffling a hand through my hair. Damn Shelley and her damn shampoo.

“I kind of like it,” Clyde sniffs, “I can close my eyes and pretend you’re a girl.”

I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off, and then realize that wouldn’t be especially conducive to friendship repairing. So instead I splay my hands on the table top and say, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Craig echoes, his slanted eyes narrowed ever so slightly. He’s ready to jump to his feet and call me an asshole if need be, and I can tell he’s doing a damage assessment of me to see how fucked up I’ve been in his absence; if there will be a need for name calling at all.

“So…remember that time I told you guys I’m sorry?”

“Yeah, no, that’s not ringing a bell,” Craig, group advocate, speaks up.

Clyde just grins and leans back in his chair. He’s more focused on that one cute barista than the unfolding drama. The boy will never change.

Except maybe for how his hand is settled on Craig’s thigh. That’s different.

“Well, I was sitting in front of you in Coffee Blue and I said ‘sorry’, and you guys forgave me, and it was pretty sweet.”

“Sounds like it,” Craig nods, “So?”

I groan. Time to take my medicine like a good boy.

“I’m sorry.”

“Excuse me? The music in here’s SO loud.”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“One more time?”

“Craig, I said I’m fucking sorry.”

I can tell he wants to drag it out even longer, but that’s the moment when Clyde cuts in and says, “Dude, you don’t have to say I’m sorry to me. I’ll settle for a latte.”

“Cool,” I smile in relief while Clyde nudges Craig and tells him to stop being an asshole.

He completely ignores Craig and waits patiently for me to fetch his coffee. I get one for Craig too, just to be safe. Then Clyde launches into a half hour long descriptive update of how all his favorite TV shows are progressing. God, I kind of missed him.

For the most part, Craig stays quiet except for a few caustic comments on Clyde’s choice in television. I can tell he’s bursting to tell me something, but we have to wait until Clyde excuses himself to go buy another coffee to talk for real.

“So, douchebag. What brought about the change of heart?” Craig asks.

“Shelley. What’s going on with you and Clyde?” I demand, zeroing in on what I’d been dying to know.

“We’re dating. Soon to be officially.”

“Officially? I don’t get it.”

“We’re,” Craig enunciates carefully, “Going to come out to the school.”

“What? Dude, are you sure? It’s high school- it’s a fucking piranha tank out there.”

My reply is pretty concise, but inside I’m screaming with questions. Our high school isn’t exactly known for tolerance. We’ve only got three black kids in the whole place, and one asian. Kyle and Kenny are the only gay people I know, and they’re not officially out. Their relationship, despite all the eye-gazing and hand-holding has been mostly on the dl.

What Craig’s talking about would blow all that out of the water.

“We’ll survive,” he smirks.

“I’m not so sure about that. Why would you?”

“People need to know to keep their hands off Clyde,” Craig watches the other boy possessively as he attempts to flirt with the barista, “He’s too horny for his own good, and one day someone’s going to take advantage of that.”

“Are you sure? I mean, no one’s taken advantage of that for the past three years…”

“Haha, very funny,” Craig makes a face at me, “I talked to Clyde about it, and he wants it too. He messes around, but he’s just been waiting for me to man up. He doesn’t like to lie; it makes him nervous and clumsy. ‘Cause of that, he won’t really be mine until we’re honest. With everybody.”

“Is Clyde worth it?”

I want to say more. I want to say that he’s my best friend, and that we live in a town where varsity jackets and cows are pretty much the only thing we’ve got going for us, and that being openly gay here is like nine kinds of social suicide. But Craig won’t care about any of that. He won’t care about anything but Clyde, and maybe me.

“C’mon, Marsh. Very few people make you want to set the world on fire,” he tilts his head towards our friend, who even now is delivering some awkward, lame pickup line.

I guess I should know better than most people; we don’t choose who we fall in love with.

Craig’s asking for my approval. I know it, and I give it. Nodding slowly, I agree, “Okay. I’m behind you.”

And I am. One hundred percent.

Somebody deserves a happy ending, at least.


	22. The Sweeping Insensitivity Of This Still Life

“Did you hear?”

“Oh my god, I can’t believe it.”

“-did you know..?”

“They’re-“

“-fags-“

“Total quee-“

I shut out the words, because all they’re doing is making me angry. Being called a fag in the hallway isn’t exactly a new thing- at least not for me. What I’m not used to is the insults and narrow-eyed looks being directed towards my friends. Clyde’s football prowess gets him nothing but respect ninety nine percent of the time, and Craig’s pretty much considered a badass.

I guess it’s hard to consider a guy badass when his hand is interlocked with another guy’s, the twosome’s arms swinging between them like first graders walking to the bus.

Craig’s not concerned at all by all the gossip going on around us, but I can tell it bothers Clyde. He’s darting glances every which way, almost like he’s surprised by the vehemence displayed by the student body. I’m gritting my teeth and seething, feeling my insides heat at a slow boil. I can already tell that by the end of the day, some asshole is going to end up with my knuckles in his teeth. The Kyle debacle had already set me on edge, and now I’ve had to deal with two whole days of this.

“Hey fellas,” a voice breaks into my imaginary world, where I’m already kicking that one guy’s butt up and down the hallways; the one on the soccer team who keeps walking by and fake coughing ‘anal pirate’. Yeah, he’s going down, soon.

“’Sup, Butters,” Clyde murmurs rather meekly, or meekly for a guy who’s built like…well, a football player. 

We're all meek right now. Even Craig. Outwardly, he doesn’t give a shit. His head’s high, and he’s owning Park County Regional. Inside I’m sure he’s cringing like a little girl, because Craig really hates being the center of attention when he hasn’t orchestrated it with a kickass prank.

You wouldn’t know it from the smirk on his face though.

Stupid Craig, and his stupid ability to look so cool when he’s a hot mess inside.

Then again, he’s got his boyfriend to squeeze his hand and reinforce the idea that what he’s doing means something, so maybe he’s not as torn up inwardly as I’m making him out to be.

“I’ah,” Butters toes the tile of the hallway, adding a scuffmark to the eighty thousand others that our janitor tries and fails to remove every single day, “I wanted to know if what everyone is saying is true. Are you two butt-fuckers?”

Butters Stotch has this astounding talent; he’s always concise and crude, yet no one ever takes it as an insult. I mean, how could you? It’s Butters. He wore a Hello Kitty t-shirt well into fifth grade, and he’s generally the sweetest guy anyone knows. Aside from being a total retard, it’s really hard to find fault with him.

Craig nods, and then tacks on, “And proud of it.”

Clyde shifts uncomfortably in his grip. Possibly because Mandy’s down the hall, staring at him with a real peculiar look on her face.

I know Craig’s in this for the win, but I’m not sure about Clyde. From what I’ve seen in the last couple days, the guy’s going through all the motions whole-heartedly. Just. Craig seems convinced that no pretty face is going to sway him, and I hope not. The thing is, Clyde’s one of the most wishy-washy people I know. I don’t think he’ll hurt Craig intentionally, but…shit. No.

I have to believe in this, and I have to believe in them. Otherwise I’m going to end up one of those jaded old men who tell random kids that Santa doesn’t exist and that Barney’s going to rape them in their sleep, or something.

“Marsh, snap the fuck out of it,” Craig waggles his fingers in front of my face, “Is it your time of the month or something? You’ve been acting like a total space-case.”

“Thanks,” I reply, putting an extra dose of dryness in my voice just so Craig can see how much I appreciate his concern. Not.

“I live to help,” Craig replies, tightening his grip on Clyde’s shoulders when he spots Mandy up ahead. Butters is still standing awkwardly beside us, clearly wanting to say something.

“You live to be a douchebag,” I remark back, and then add, “What is it, Butters?”

“I’ah, I just wanted to say that I think what you’n’ Clyde are doin’ is great.”

“Thanks dude,” I respond for Craig, steamrolling over whatever rude answer he was cooking up. Craig’s full of nothing but rude answers for Butters. Something about all that innocence in a fully grown adolescent rubs him the wrong way, I guess. It’s like an open invitation for him to be a jerkoff and get off scot free.

“D’you think this was a good idea?” Clyde shuffles over to me, exchanging Craig’s left hand for his right, “This is all so…so…awkward.”

“Hey,” I clap a hand on his shoulder and attempt to look way more cheery than I feel, “Come on. Love conquers all. Don’t you know that?”

Clyde smiles, all teeth and sun-formed freckles and crinkles in the corners of his eyes. He’s not exactly Prince Charming, but neither is Craig.

And despite all the hoots and hollers, catcalls and cruelty they’re in for, when I look at them standing there in the middle of the hallway, Clyde in Craig’s worn blue hoodie, Craig wearing Clyde’s varsity jacket slung around his broad shoulders; they look good together. They look right.

Them being together fits.

I’m kind of jealous.

* * *

 

The bell rings, shrill and true. Not a second too late, either, ‘cause man, I gotta piss like a motherfucking racehorse.

Sorry, that’s what my dad always says. I’ve never actually seen a racehorse. Dad tried to take me to the track one summer, but mom wouldn’t let him. Something about being too young to gamble.

I race to the bathroom, feeling better the second I get my fly unzipped. The door creaks open, but I pretty much ignore it until I’m all set, with my valuables covered and my hands squeaky clean and smelling like…well, like public restroom pink soap.

That’s when I notice that the person who came in is reclining against the last sink in the line, the one closest to the sunlit-gold window about the size of a small UPS box. And they say school isn’t a cage.

At first I think the person’s Derek, because bathroom ambushes seem to be a fetish of his.

It’s Georgie.

I traded one boy in black for another.

“Were you-“ I can’t help the disgust in my voice, “Watching me, you little freak?”

“As if I’d want to see your tiny ass dick,” Georgie replies, apathy and cigarette-formed hoarseness making his voice low and growly.

“Then? Enjoying the sunlight?” I gesture to the window mockingly.

“Fucking conformist,” Georgie spits, and I realize he’s smoking, “Why don’t you just go back to you Abercrombie and Fitch pastel hellhole and leave the rest of us alone?”

“Um, you’re the one stalking me, thank you very much.”

“I’m not stalking you- I’m fucking telling you. Stay away from Derek.”

“Not a problem,” the words spill out of my mouth before the implications even catch up with me, “Wait- why?”

“Because you’re a poseur, _Raven_. Just because Derek thinks your ass is tight and your emotionally stunted psyche is deep doesn’t mean we want your kind hanging around.”

“My kind?”

“Justin wannabes,” Georgie hisses, taking a long drag on his cigarette.

“Look, Junior,” I scowl at him, “I don’t want to be involved with your shit. I didn’t ask to be an honorary Goth, okay?”

“Then what’s with the getup?”

I tug at my t-shirt, black and graphic, and which I happen to like. Georgie nods, like there’s obviously something wrong with it, clear as day.

Oh wait. It’s black.

“Sorry. Can’t change. The color suits my soul, and all that.”

He sneers, throws his cigarette to the ground, and flips me off. How very non-conformist of him.

Insert eye roll here.

“You prance around here like you want to be one of us. You have to choose a side,” he snaps.

“I have chosen a side. My own. You lot don’t have a monopoly on a color, Georgie.”

He gives me this condescending look.

“You don’t,” I practically scream, “That’s ridiculous.”

The look continues, and cool as a cucumber, Georgie holds it while walking past me, wordless. Just before he leaves, he says, “Just stay away from Derek, alright?”

I don’t really know what that means. When he’s gone I stare at my reflection in the mirror, my eyes wide and dark. Did I just get bitched out by the fashion police, or was that about something more? Georgie seemed a little too concerned with Derek’s well being, but I haven’t even seen Derek for like, three days.

I glance back down at my shirt, tracing the design.

Fuck it.

I’m wearing something blue tomorrow.

* * *

 

Things get even weirder when I get to the lunch room. I’m about to go sit with Craig and Clyde at our usual table when I notice that the entire student body seems to be in a bit of an uproar. My first thought is that it’s about my friends, because I’m self-centered like that, and the world revolves around me.

Then I hear the source of the commotion, a few tables separate from ours.

Kyle’s been steadfastly ignoring me for a few days. As in he full on glares at me when I make any attempts to talk to him, even if all I want to say is, “Can I borrow a pencil?”

I guess total avoidance is his idea of ‘space’.

That doesn’t make me feel any better when I see he’s in the middle of a fist fight.

Fist fight might be an overstatement. Cartman’s slamming his knuckles into Kyle’s gut so hard it looks like his ribs might crack, and Kyle’s just…dangling there. Like a puppet.

I drop my tray before my thoughts can even catch up with my hands. Chimichanga spatters my jeans, pudding leaks all over Annie Polk’s designer shoes, and I can’t even process her screaming at me. My eyes meet Kyle’s, green and absent.

“Leave him alone!” I shout, running across the cafeteria.

I can feel the hard tile slam up through my feet, jolting my knees. I haven’t run as fast as I did at Stark’s the other day in a long while. I’ve been paying for the lack of exercise ever since. My footsteps are jarring my bones, all the way up through my spine. I’ll be hurting later, with sore knees and tired thighs.

I need to go practice football with Clyde and Craig more often. Nothing like having Park County Regional’s star varsity player and star varsity dropouts tossing around the ol’ pigskin together.

I can’t concentrate on that. At my words, Cartman pauses in his onslaught, glancing up at me with a piercing glare, like I’ve insulted his very ideology or something.

I don’t know what’s going on. Isn’t he supposed to be one of Kyle’s best friends? Where’s Kenny in all this?

Kyle is looking at me from where he’s splayed out on the jigsaw set lunch table; metal connecting benches and tables made out of particle board, painted to look like real wood. His face is a mask of something like shock and…revulsion?

“What are you doing?” he snaps, although it’s not really intimidating when accompanied by that gurgling noise, like he’s choking on blood.

“Saving your ass,” I glare hard at Cartman, whose grip is bruising my friend’s arm.

“I can take care of myself, dickhole,” Kyle mutters, staring at me like I’m the vilest thing that ever lived. I’m not sure what I did to make him hate me so much. This sudden onset of animosity hits me hard, and it makes me think there’s more to this whole ‘space’ thing than I initially thought.

“Doesn’t look that way to me,” I glance pointedly at the purple blossoming over his skin, each bruise a perfect imprint of the fatass’s fingers, knuckles, fists. There are shadows that aren’t shadows; that are marks and contusions that would look less out of place on a domestic abuse victim.

“Get lost,” Kyle narrows his eyes, even though the left one’s swelling, and his voice is a hiss, “Raven.”

Ouch.

I don’t let him get to me. I stand my ground. His eyes are piercing, not emerald or grass colored, but sharp as a broken bottle green shard of glass.

“You heard the Jew,” Cartman jeers, his voice childish and whiny, “Get lost, you emo pussy.”

“Shut your pie hole if you know what’s good for you,” I tell him, and in seconds I’m wrenching his hand away from Kyle’s arm. Kyle snatches his limb from me too, like I’m going to hurt him.

“Kahl and I were just having a little talk,” Cartman replies, “You can’t stop us. It’s a free country.”

“Last I checked, they didn’t give whales citizenship, so I don’t think those laws apply to you,” I snarl back, even though I’m watching Kyle. He’s torn, that much is obvious. It doesn’t seem like a really new emotion for him, either.

That’s when it hits me. He’s always seemed to be walking the edge of a knife. Cool and calm as some kind of machine, but able to fall either direction at a moment’s notice. Yet inevitably he’s easy going and too-cool-for-words and the only real flashes of emotion I’ve seen from him all this time is fleeting guilt over our fight, slight panic over Kenny, and something strongly averse to our kiss.

Most of the time, he acts like such an impossibly nice, relaxed guy.

Truth is, that’s not Kyle.

The real Kyle’s a spitfire; he’s got a quick temper, he’s judgmental, and it’s impossibly easy to ruffle his feathers. He’s not this perfect boyfriend- holding hands with Kenny and acting like being lovey-dovey is all he ever wanted, perfect friend- hanging out with me, never bickering, and making me feel like he’s prince charming in disguise, perfect person- teacher’s pet, momma’s boy, best big brother ever.

I’ve known it, subconsciously, but I’ve never managed to put it into words. I’ve never had the confidence to look beyond my own issues with him and see my ex-best friend as a whole. Maybe that’s the real reason I initially wanted him back; not just for my own good. Maybe I’ve been sick of seeing this automaton in the halls.

I want to see the real Kyle again.

It’s funny, now that I realize it. He said I was the one who changed, but it’s him.

Somewhere along the way, it stopped being okay for Kyle to feel something other than normal. For Kyle to fight back, to have fire and passion. For Kyle to figure out the difference between what feels right, and what’s just not working. He’s breathing hard now, as he stares at me, and I think…he knows.

That thing, I gleaned in the coffee shop; I’ve figured it out. I’ve figured him out.

I imagine it scares the living daylight out of him.

“Get away from me, freak,” he mumbles, but all the venom he had before is gone.

I cross my arms, “Fine. But fucking defend yourself. You know how.”

He glares balefully at me, and I return it full force. Sure, if that’s how he wants to play it.

I don’t know why I even try.

Except I do. Because the Kyle I remember, the one who knows his own mind and would never let anyone beat the shit out of him, for anything; he was worth it.

I tell Cartman that most ‘conversations’ involve looking, not touching, and then I walk away. But even as I do, I’m forming a battle plan. I’m going to find out why they were fighting, I’m going to find out what Kyle’s damage is, and I’m going to find out if maybe I didn’t give up on ‘us’ a little too early.

I was right earlier; space is for stars, man. Not people.

Not me and Kyle.

My sister would be proud.


	23. And We’re Spinning With The Stars Above

Like most things in high school, Craig and Clyde’s coming out is eclipsed in less than a week by a bigger, more interesting scandal.

Specifically, the fact that one of the freshman English teachers was discovered having an affair with a student. It doesn’t directly impact any of us seniors' lives, except to make for good gossip fodder, so basically things have gone back to normal.

I’m sitting at Crag’s house, where he’s watching Red Racer reruns with wide eyes, like they’re bringing back the magic of childhood or some shit.

“Dude, you know you’ll get mocked mercilessly if anyone finds out you still watch this show.”

“Haters,” Craig says dismissively, “They ain’t got nothing on me.”

“Except your childlike sense of wonder,” I snort, “Does Clyde know you still watch this show?”

My friend’s eyes shift back and forth, like he’s considering how to avoid the question. Finally he settles on, “No, and you’re not going to tell him or that pretty little singing voice of yours will end up an octave short of a soprano.”

“Was that a threat against my balls?”

“And here I thought you’d failed subtlety.”

“I hate you. So, so much.”

“I’m hurt. Really I am. My heart’s fucking bleeding, Marsh.”

“Homicide is justified when the victim’s an a-hole, you know?”

“Only in South Park,” Craig grins, “You couldn’t take me on.”

“Dude, seriously? I’m bigger than you.”

Craig looks scandalized, “In what, Bizarroworld? As if, Clark Kent.”

“You just compared me to Superman. That means you obviously see me as superior,” I let a smirk tug at my lips. Antagonizing Craig is a favorite pastime of mine. He’s stubborn as hell and refuses to back down, kind of like someone else I used to know.

He makes a disparaging noise, “Superman’s a pussy. Think about it; all the babes he meets, and he’s like, dedicated to Lois Lane? Seriously? Her rack isn’t even that great. And he got killed by like, Doomsday, who isn’t even that great a supervillain.”

“But he resurrected. That’s like, god-power.”

“Okay, first, there were circumstances on that one,” Craig ticks off fingers like he’s making a shopping list, “Second, you’re avoiding the Lois Lane thing. Third, half the Marvel universe has resurrected too, so god-power? Not so much. Nice try, Marsh.”

“The Lois Lane thing,” I murmur, “Some guys find intelligence attractive.”

“Some guys’ balls disappear up their asses, making them fucking women,” he spits in reply, arching an eyebrow like asking if I’m one of those guys.

I challenge that, easy, “No, it’s okay. I understand why you don’t dig smart people. I mean, look at Clyde.”

I get an elbow in my face for the trouble. Craig wrestles me down to the grown, his knee looming over my stomach like a pointed weapon, his hands holding my forearms like iron manacles.

Lucky me, I don’t believe in fighting fair. I slam a knee into the side of his thigh, soft and tender, using his momentary wince of pain to yank my arms hard against the weak point of his thumbs. He lets go because he can’t help it; I learned that in karate when I was eleven. Thank you, sensei didn’t-have-a-Japanese-name-or-really-any-name-worth-remembering.

I wiggle out from beneath him while he’s regrouping, scrabbling to swat lightly at any of my uncovered, fleshy body parts. Dodging the hit, I use Craig’s arm’s momentum to roll him onto his back. My knees dig into the carpet as I force him down, the biggest shit-eating grin on my face, “Say uncle.”

Craig’s only reply is to dig his fingers into a sensitive spot on my stomach, making me jump, “Dude, cheating!”

“Bitch and whine, Marsh, or deliver,” he chuckles, and I think maybe he doesn’t realize that I could break his face right now, if I were so inclined. I sigh and jump to my feet, offering him a hand.

He takes it, but looks like he’s maybe considering trying to toss me over the couch first. He doesn’t, but I think it’s only because his mother’s in the next room and she would have a cow if she found out.

“So, if you legit mock my boyfriend again, I might have to kill you,” he says seriously.

“Don’t compare me to Clark Kent then. Superman’s a douche.”

“I know, your personalities are so similar.”

Somehow, I doubt this conversation is going to go anywhere.

I don’t mind.

It’s nice; having a best friend again.

* * *

 

Two weeks have passed since the mysterious cafeteria brawl between Cartman and Kyle. I wish I could say I know what went down, or why Kyle was content to let Cartman pound him, but my detective skills are sub-par at best.

At one point I even gave in and straight up asked Kyle what had gone down. He performed what seems to be his new favorite tactic when dealing with me; pretend I don’t exist. It’s juvenile. It’s completely uncalled for.

And I really wish I could say it didn’t hurt like a bitch every time he does it.

I’m in gym class, which back when I first started high school was kind of an excuse for everyone to see how many balls they could aim at my soft spots. The instigators of that weekly prank got over it real quick; I wasn’t originally requisitioned as a quarterback for nothing. It’s one thing to be tough when you have a class full of peers standing behind you, mocking the freak. It’s another thing with ‘the freak’ corners you in an empty hallway and threatens everything that makes you a man.

Gym class was also the only time before this year that Kyle had called me Raven, so it’s never held a very fond place in my heart.

Now the seniors mostly leave me alone, except for a scattered few that possess the brains of a sea sponge. I don’t share the session with Clyde or Craig, so I’m left to fend for myself against the only thing worse than a group of belligerent ex-friends; acquaintances that are pretty much apathetic about my very existence. You would think being homecoming king earned me some popularity points, but except for a group of squirrely, rather nerdy freshmen girls, I’m mostly ignored again. I’ve fallen off Lola and Bebe’s radar post-election, although they spare me the occasional harsh glare.

The reason all this is important is because we’re forced to team up for tennis.

That’s the other reason I no long like gym, ancient memories of Kyle aside. No partner. I’m always the odd man out.

That’s why I’m kind of surprised when I get tapped on the shoulder, a sweet voice asking, “Do you want to play with me, Stan?”

Wendy.

I haven’t really spoken to her much since the dance. She’s definitely been friendlier than I’d once thought possible for the Queen Bee of the school, but it isn’t like we’ve been talking outside of classes or anything. I did her a favor, I guess. She deserved to be queen, in title as well as reputation, and I gave that to her. But it doesn’t make up for the emotional abandonment she thought I’d inflicted on her, or the physical and emotional abandonment she’d forced on me as a result. We can never make that up to each other.

Even so, she’s got this flirty little smile on; probably not for my benefit. Half the guys in our class watched her approach, I’m sure, and the rest of them are now zeroing in on the fact that she’s even talking to me. Park County Regional’s a big school; very few people know Wendy and I were ever even involved outside the homecoming incident.

I imagine I’ll be getting some nasty hate mail in my lockers for this.

“Sure,” I shrug my shoulders and grit out a smile.

I don’t want to interact with her, I don’t want to remember the way her hair smells and the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles. Even though I have no love left for her, those memories remain sharp, rubbing the wrong way, like ground glass in my chest. I already know the answer, but part of me still screams ‘why?’

Knowing firsthand now why Wendy, Kyle, and the rest of the world ditched me so long ago hasn’t made things as easy as I thought it would. If anything, I’ve been looking back thinking, what was wrong with me that I _let_ them go that so easily?

The past may be the past, but it shapes who we are in the present. I’m scraping up all the lessons I can get from it.

We work on serves for a little while, even though tennis is pretty much a useless sport in South Park, unless you’re a member of the country club up in North Park, which costs a bajillion dollars a year to join. All the rest of our courts are outdoors, and the snow soaks through the balls faster than they hit the ground.

Wendy bats her eyes at me when we take a five minute break and says, “I wanted to tell you thank you again.”

“It’s not a big deal, Wends.”

“It is. Stan, you believed in me, when I hadn’t believed in you in the past. So of course it’s a big deal,” she reasons.

I don’t want to tell her that choosing someone to be homecoming queen and believing in someone don’t really have any correlation in my head. No need to crush her optimism.

“Really, it’s okay. You were the obvious choice.”

“Thanks,” she ducks her head and twists her finger around a lock of hair, “I- um, I’m dating someone.”

“Oh? That’s nice.”

I don’t really know how she wants me to respond to that. Her revolving door love life is none of my business. I like it that way.

“It is,” she murmurs, “He makes me really happy. So, I guess, I was just wondering…when are you going to date someone again?”

“Wait, what?”

“You heard me.”

“I heard you, I just can’t believe you would ask me that. God, Wendy. Why do you even care?”

“Because…it would be nice to see you happy again. That’s all.”

“Look, aside from this being absolutely not any of your concern, at all,” I can hear my voice getting a little pitchy, like I’m back in puberty, “I’m fine. I’m happy.”

“You’re not,” she insists gently, “You haven’t been happy in a long time.”

I bite back the urge to say, ‘and whose fault do you think that is?’ I’d forgotten how many things I’ve always had to stop myself from saying to spare Wendy’s feelings. It’s kind of obnoxious.

Maybe that’s why I turned my eye on the male types. They’re…sturdier, at least.

She gives me this delicate look, like I’m the one who’s so fragile that I might burst out in tears any second, when my eyes have never been dryer. If anything, I’m kind of pissed off.

When she realizes I’m not going to say anything, that I can’t say anything without biting her head off, she sighs, “You’ve always been happiest when you’re in love, Stan. I’m just saying, it’d be nice to see you involved with someone.”

I’m silent for a second, not sure how to respond to this…god, this assault on my masculinity. Since when has Wendy seen me as some kind of stray dog, as someone in need of romantic advice?

“Okay, Miss Feminism. Can’t I be fulfilled without being in a relationship?” I can’t help the smugness in my voice, nurtured after thousands of hours of listening to Wendy bitch and moan about her friends who thought boyfriends and husbands were the only way to have anything real in life.

This was back when she actually cared about causes instead of whether her distressed True Religion jeans made her ass look fat.

Before she became a brand name whore.

A faint smile tugs at her lips.

“With anyone else, you know I’d say that’s true. But you- Stan, you’ve never been alone. Not ever.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve been alone. A lot,” I can’t help but think that the last protest sounds a bit weak.

“No. You haven’t. You’ve always had your sister, your mom, your dad. When you were at school you had Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman. And me. When you were goth back in fourth grade, you had Henrietta and her fashion victims,” Wendy wrinkles her nose, unable to let the dig slide, “Then you came back. As soon as we all dropped you like hotcakes, you picked up Craig and Clyde. You’ve never had a problem making friends. The only problem you’ve ever had is being by yourself. You’ve never been the kind of person who can’t not coexist.”

I wince. Wow. I do sound kind of like a social butterfly when she puts it that way.

“It’s not your fault,” she says, “You’re stronger for it. Sometimes I wish I had the support system you’ve always had, that you always have even when your first line of defense falls through.”

“You’re like that too, though,” I say wildly, trying to make myself sound less like some spoiled child who acts victimized despite all the love he’s given.

“Stan, I’m the only child of two workaholics. I’ve fought for every single friend I have, and even now, I’m pretty sure half of them only like me because I’m popular. It’s not the same.”

I hate that she might be right.

“If I tell you something, you swear it won’t come back to me?”

“What do you mean?” She asks. 

“I mean, I don’t want to tell you this and hear it again through some asshole junior from your clique. It’s a secret.”

“Stan, I promise,” she lays a hand over mine, but I catch her eyes flicker towards our gym teacher, checking whether or not he’s noticed our extended break.

“You don’t call me Raven anymore,” I mutter, even though that’s not the secret.

“It didn’t seem right…anymore,” she concludes with a click of her tongue. The gesture makes me nervous, makes me run my own tongue over the scar on my lip. I’m stalling.

“I have a thing for Kyle.”

Immediately Wendy prompts, “What do you mean?”

Her big brown doe eyes have widened to the point that she looks like a cartoon character.

And the surprise is totally fake.

“You,” I accuse, “You already knew.”

“No, false,” she raises a hand, “I didn’t know. Well, um, I might have guessed. The thing at homecoming was a little shady…but before that too…”

“How? Why- no, wait, how?”

“Well…I mean, you always liked tight jeans more than any boy ever should,” she jokes.

“Wendy!”

“I just don’t know, Stan. It was a lot of things. It was…breaking off your friendship with Kyle always seemed to hurt you more than breaking up with me, which okay, I told you that before. And I even get that you guys were friends forever, so maybe you can write it off as friendship, but we’d been dating for like, over six years Stan. Since we were six, even! I thought maybe you’d care about us at least equally…”

"That was-“ my voice is lame, limp. I can’t believe what I’m hearing, “Wends, that was ages ago. I only just figured this out.”

“Really? Oh." She glances down at her pink sneakers, like sweatshop workmanship is infinitely more interesting than the conversation we’re having, “I don’t know. It just seemed to me that Kyle was always watching you back then. And, you watched him a lot too. I just thought maybe there was something to it..?

Her answer’s vague, but I can tell I’m not going to get much more than that.

“Wendy, I never- never ever cheated on you. Especially not with Kyle.”

“No! Oh, gosh, I know that Stan. That had nothing to do with what happened between us. Well, maybe it does…I’m saying…I guess I always kind of thought you went all emo again because maybe you and Kyle had a fight over…well, what your relationship was.”

“You were wrong.”

Sure, Kyle and I had fought about our relationship, but it was all about the way I dressed and acted. Not about the way we felt about each other. The idea was ludicrous.

“Are you sure?” she can’t help the question, I can tell from how rushed it is, “Are you sure that’s what Kyle thinks?”

“Yes!”

“He always hero-worshipped you.”

“What? No he didn’t.”

“He did. He was so damn proud to have a best friend who was a star in this town.”

“Yeah,” I scoff, “That worked out well.”

“Does he know…that you like him?”

“Yeah. He knows,” my lips thin into a grim line, “He wants nothing to do with me.”

“That can’t be true.”

“It is.”

“I refuse to believe Kyle Broflovski shot you down. Isn’t he all gay and cozy with Kenny McCormick? You’re a way better catch than that poor asshole.”

I wince away from the vehemence in Wendy’s voice, and because I didn’t know Kyle and Kenny’s relationship was general knowledge. Then again, she is basically at the center of the gossip mill around these parts.

“Um. Thanks, I think. Kenny’s…well, he’s not _that_ bad.

“He’s not you,” Wendy shrugs, “Isn’t that enough?”

I’m embarrassed, and I don’t know how to deal with it, “Er- we should probably get back to it…”

“Yeah, Coach doesn’t look too happy. He’ll probably make us run laps,” she laughs, high and familiar.

I think about what she said, how people support me. How people have always supported me.

How she’s supporting me right now, even though we’re not even friends.

It’s kind of wonderful.

* * *

 

Maybe it’s because of Wendy’s insults that I feel a little guilty when Kenny confronts me in the parking lot.

He must really like the damned place; he’s always here. I’m going to have to start looking over my shoulder all the time if this is the new popular hangout for Park County’s poor delinquents.

“Raven, you fucking prick!” Kenny slams a hand into my shoulder, shoving me into the passenger side door of someone’s dented impala. My body hits it with a dull clunk.

“What the hell, Kenny?”

“You’re such a douchebag,” he drives a fist into my stomach, which only hurts a little, he’s so damned malnourished, “dickhole,” he kicks my shin, hard with his beat up converse, and- ow, “goat-fucking cum waffle!”

“Uh,” I cough out, trying to catch my breath and his pale wrists, “Is this like misplaced aggression? C’mon! Stop!”

Even after I catch hold of both his forearms, he flails a bit, and maybe he’s a little stronger than I’d initially thought. He probably only pulled that first punch because- because, “Oh shit dude, are you crying?”

“Shut up!” he roars at me, trying to surge forward and pummel me.

“I’m stronger than you,” I intone, trying to sound bored and not at all concerned.

“I don’t care.” Whatever tears had been on his face stilled; there were only one or two to begin with.

Kenny’s usually pretty stoic if I remember correctly. Crying stopped being his thing after that time his older brother accidentally broke his arm when they were play wrestling when he was twelve.

“Well, I do. What’s wrong with you, you fucking spaz?”

“Kyle broke up with me.”

I can’t stop the tremor that runs through my body at those words. Why the hell would Kyle do that? It’s not like I’ve been an integral part of his life lately, but from my seat in the backdrop things looked like they were running well between him and Kenny. He told me when he broke it off with Bebe that things had never felt right, but he’d said they clicked better with Kenny.

So…I don’t know, man.

I stare at Kenny, awestruck. His face is dirty, streaked with a few stray tears, engine grease, and some honest to god dirt. I don’t know how he got the combination, and I don’t really want to.

“Sorry, man,” I finally say, because if anything I know that Kyle was the obstacle that came between my friendship with Kenny.

“No you’re not,” he spits, rage replacing whatever sadness he’d had, “It’s your fault!”

“What? Kenny, no. I haven’t even talked to Kyle in weeks.”

“It’s your fault. Even as a social pariah, you get everything you want. And I’ll never get anything.”

“Kenny, that’s not-.”

I realize I can’t finish the sentence. I can’t say it’s not true, because it is. Kenny’s gotten gypped more times than I can name, and it’s not fair.

But I’m still glad for this. For Kyle being single again, even if it means absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of things.

Somewhere inside me, the idea of Kyle and Kenny made my gut twist, gave my heart jealous pangs. It’s one less thing to worry about.

He drops his arms, and I let go. Between Craig’s play fighting, this, and the beating my sister laid on me two nights ago when I used her razor (because seriously, she has a guy razor in the first place, which is just asking for it) on my stubble, I’m going to be bruised as hell.

“I hate you,” he breathes.

“Okay.”

Because what else is there to say?


	24. To Me, You’ll Always Be The One

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“I said no.”

“Fuck you. You don’t get a say,” Craig crosses his arms and glares at me, “Yes, and that’s the only final answer that’s an option.”

“Dude,” I can’t help the sullenness from creeping into my voice, “I’m not in the mood.”

God, it sounds like I’m turning down sex or something. With Craig. Urgh, that’s an unsettling thought.

“How can you not be in the mood to party? That’s like not being in the mood to watch porn, or sleep in. It’s going against nature, man.”

“Some of us aren’t perverts who watch crappy ass porno on their computer screens twenty four seven,” I intone, “Disturbing, twisted, fetish pornos.”

“I don’t watch porn twenty four seven. I have Clyde now, after all,” Craig cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowing, “C’mon Marsh. You don’t want to go against nature…God will smite you for it.”

“I very much doubt God’s going to have a problem with me abstaining from a night of overactive teenage hormones and boozing.”

“You obviously don’t worship the same God I do,” Craig replies, disgusted.

“Dionysus?” I guess, matching his look.

“If I knew who the fuck that was, I might have some kind of witty comeback.”

Wow. We covered a section on mythology in our World Lit class sophomore year. I knew Craig slept through most of the class, but I would’ve thought the god of wine and revelry might have at least been a blip on his radar.

Then again, Craig’s never been a partier, not really. He’s more of a mellow, sit-in-his-house-and-watch-reruns-with-a-beer-and-a-cigarette kind of guy.

You wouldn’t guess it though.

He started pretending to like crazy keggers for Clyde’s sake a long time ago, and now it’s kind of like a role-playing costume that got irreparably grafted to his skin. As such, I know how this is going to go down. Craig’s eagerness is going to convince me to go to the party, and then once we get there he’ll stand around like some kind of lost, miserable puppy dog, waiting for Clyde-the-frat boy-in-training to stop hamming it up and start paying attention to him.

Although I guess it _could_ go differently now that they’re dating.

Either way, I seriously doubt going to some high school drink-until-you-puke bash is going to help me out of my funk.

Investigating is like, hard, man. Kyle’s all bad vibes if I even glance at him the wrong way, Kenny won’t talk to me, and I’ve been holding out on fatass as a last resort.

The weird thing is, Kyle’s a popular guy, right? He’s got a basketball pedigree for street cred with the in crowd and a rep as a teacher’s pet with the not-so-in crowd. So, logically speaking, he should have a plethora of friends who have all this juicy information. People who could at least tell me what the cafeteria brawl was about before I went all knight-in-shining-chauvinism, thinking he needed me to save him or something.

Except…he doesn’t. Nobody knows a damned thing about Kyle, other than the surface stuff; the nice smile, kind eyes, smart as a whip, great b-ball player drill. It’s not like I’m asking about his favorite pizza toppings, which is standard best friend only knowledge. All I want to know is like…what the fight was about. Why did he break it off with Kenny? How has he been acting in classes, hanging out? And no one seems to know. I’m starting to understand that _no one_ actually ever hangs out with Kyle. Except for Kenny and Cartman, and once upon a time…me.

I guess it’s not a big deal. I mean, the only people I hang out with are Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, also known as Craig N’ Clyde. I doubt many people at school could tell anyone shit about me. But Kyle’s…popular. He’s the way I was supposed to be, before all this high school stuff started. And I guess I kind of figured that being the person I was supposed to be was somehow…less _lonely_.

“Sometimes I forget you’re such an idiot,” I tell Craig, trying to sneer and feeling too tired to pull off anything but a weak scowl.

“And sometimes I forget you’re so pathetic. God, Marsh. Stop pussyfooting around. You’re going to the party.”

“Goddamnit,” I hang my head, “Fine.”

Goddamnit, goddamnit, godfuckingdamnit.

I knew this would happen. Just for the record.

* * *

 

So, the party. It comes around every year, although it’s the first time in the past four that I’ve been officially invited. Being homecoming king, and all.

Of course, I’m pretty sure Lola wanted to rescind the invitation about half a second after I didn’t elect her queen, but you know. That’s how the dice rolls, or is it the ball? I always forget these stupid, cliché sayings that my mom’s so very fond of.

Speaking of mom. She’s been happy lately, which is weird. I mean, my mom’s always been a glass half full kind of lady, but ever since Shelley came home and the whole homecoming incident, she’s positively glowing. I guess the homecoming thing gives her something to brag about other than her son being a belligerent loser, but it beats the hell out of me what my sister being a dropout failure can contribute to mom’s personal well being.

Maybe it’s just having another female in the house again to commiserate with against me and dad.

God knows my sister’s not good for much else.

Lola’s house is blue, and looks kind of like everyone else’s in this particular suburb of South Park.

Actually, it’s our only suburb. We’ve got this and then the side streets off Main that are technically called suburbs, which is where I live. In my opinion, they’re less suburb, more dead end cul-de-sac, but okay. Our politicians continually attempt to make the town sound classier than it is.

Benefits of being on the map now. Before, back when South Park didn’t exist to the whole of Colorado, we weren’t just the black sheep of the state; we were the incestuous goat-mutt cousin of the black sheep that you try to slaughter for meat but can’t even feed to your dog because we’re just that bad. Now we’ve been elevated to something resembling the black sheep itself in the esteem of our state, which isn’t really much better.

I said it before; I kind of liked it when our town was quirky enough to be on TV, if anyone with a TV crew ever deigned to come to our tiny, podunk, redneck town.

Craig and Clyde are at my heels, arguing vehemently about whether or not some team will make the Super Bowl this year. Normally, this is a subject I’d be interested in, but I’m so lost in wondering whether or not this is the kind of party Kyle will be at that I zoned out long ago.

Lola greets as at the door with a less than pleased expression on her face, but she’s gracious enough.

“Oh, it’s- you. Hi, Raven.”

“What up, Lola?” Craig breaks free of his argument and wraps an arm around my shoulders, trying to look either intimidating or pacifying; I’m not sure which. Lola doesn’t seem impressed, but she doesn’t say anything else, just waves us on in.

The reason Lola holds her birthday party this time every year when her actual birthday is closer to December is because the day happens to be her parents’ anniversary. They fly out to all sorts of exotic locales to celebrate, never once suspecting that their honor roll daughter throws raucous, wild parties in their absence. It’s town tradition.

I think they’re in Fiji right now.

“Stop being so negatory, Marsh. You’re killing all the lady vibes,” Clyde hisses in my ear, while Craig nods vigorously in agreement.

“You’re dating that jerkoff,” I point to Craig, “You don’t need any _lady vibes_.”

“Gotta keep on my game,” Clyde grins, “Makes things better in the bedro-“ I slap a hand over his mouth, clamping it shut in a desperate attempt to stop those words from ever reaching my mind.

Epic fail.

“God, Clyde. That image is never going to leave me. Ever.”

“I know, hot, right?” Craig interjects, the biggest shit eating grin I’ve ever seen pasted across his lips.

I’ve just come to the realization. I hate my best friends. So, so much.

“Dude, keg!” Clyde cheers, thankfully saving me from anymore awkward conversation about his sex life. I don’t know what scared me more; hearing what he and Craig get up to, or the possibility that I might let slip what Derek and I got up to. That’s information my friends never need to hear, I’m sure.

“So, like,” Craig sidles up to me, his eyes trained on Clyde’s back as our friend vanishes into the kitchen, where the beer lives, “Are you going to be hunting down Kyle now or do you require liquid courage first?”

I glance up sharply, “Wait, what?”

“You heard me.”

“I heard you. I just have no idea what you’re talking about,” I feel this panic rising in my chest that has nothing to do with leaking secrets about my sex life and everything to do with the more troubling aspect of my latent sexuality.

“Marsh. Dude. I’m not completely oblivious,” Craig narrows his eyes, “You and Broflovski have been dancing around each other since nearly the beginning of school. It’s time to put up and tap that shit or get the fuck out of the race.”

“Um.”

I have no idea what to say to that. Like, none. Whatsoever.

I thought I’d been doing a pretty good job of hiding the way I feel for Kyle; at least from people other than Kyle.

And Wendy.

And Kenny.

Maybe Christophe.

Oh, and my sister.

But everyone else…

Leave it to Craig to be surprisingly insightful.

“Seriously, Marsh. Man up.”

“How- uh. How did you-“

“You’re really going to ask me that? God, it’s beyond obvious that you’re jonesing to get in Broflovski’s jeans. _Clyde_ even noticed.”

“Really?” I hate how weak my voice sounds. But- c’mon, really? Clyde noticed? Clyde never notices anything. Ever.

“Yup. I’m just sayin’, dude. You need to get a jump on that or he’s going to fucking graduate and forget you ever existed. I mean, you don’t even know for sure if he goes gay.”

“He does,” I reply, surprising myself with how easily the words slip out, “He was dating Kenny.”

“McCormick? No shit?” Craig shakes his head, spying Clyde tramping back towards us with three precariously balanced red plastic cups. “Never would have guessed.”

"I heard him talking to you about it, one time."

Craig's gaze goes murderous. "You what?"

"You've loved Clyde for four years. It's impressive dedication."

Craig actually looks like he might kill me on the spot for eavesdropping on him and Kenny, but just then, Clyde sidles up.

“Did you ask him?” Clyde mutters under his breath, but I still hear it.

I cock my head to the side and say, “You guys are douchebags.”

“Think of us as life coaches,” Clyde grins, and somehow the expression has more confidence in it than it ever did when in the pre-Craig days.

“Fuck that. Think of us as get-you-laid-coaches,” Craig crows, slinging an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulder. He's already forgiven me. 

I think I like Craig-in-love.

“Kyle’s on the back deck with Cartman. I saw ‘em when I was getting beer,” Clyde tells me with a wink and a nudge.

I need better friends. Classy ones. Maybe it’s time I started trawling Coffee Blue for some of those college intellectual types.

Clyde follows up his comment by chugging down his beer and then burping, loud. He rubs his stomach and looks completely unabashed.

“Nice one,” Craig cheers.

Yeah. Maybe I will go find Kyle.

* * *

 

Sure enough, he’s on the back porch of Lola’s house, sitting with Cartman. Kyle’s smoking a cigarette. Cartman’s smoking a cigar; he’s always had some kind of weird fondness for the things. The air smells like a mix of carcinogens and vanilla.

I want to go out, but something stops me. Something other than the disdain I’m sure I’m going to see on Kyle’s face.

Despite the top forties radio station someone’s tuned to in the living room, I can hear Kyle and Cartman, clear as day.

And it sounds like they’re talking about me.

“No. No, no. No. No, no, no,” Kyle growls vehemently, a familiar tune from back in the days when he and Cartman were more frenemies than friends, “Stop it.”

“Fucking hippie’s so far up your ass you can’t even see straight.”

Kyle turns on him, practically yelling, “Dude, so what? Why do you care, Eric? Fuck, what I do with Stan is none of your business!”

Okay, yeah. They’re definitely talking about me.

“So you admit you do something!” Cartman exclaims, jowls jiggling as he slams a fist into a meaty palm for emphasis.

“What?” Kyle squeaks, reeling back, “No! Absolutely not!”

“What, the hippie’s not good enough for you? Or did Po’boy ruin your impression of the lives of the rich and fagulous?”

Kyle bangs his head back against the wall of the hallway, squinting his eyes shut in frustration, “Seriously, this is just not- okay. I told you the other day, Eric, back off. That’s all I ask.”

“God, Kahl. You don’t have to be such a Jew about it.”

“What? Shut the fuck up, asshole,” Kyle snaps, with more venom than I’ve heard from him in a long time. It’s familiar. Kind of warms me inside.

It also leaves me wondering if this is what the cafeteria skirmish was about.

Not the Jew joke- but Kyle’s love life. Except, if that was it, why wasn’t he fighting back?

“But Stan-“

“I’m not even talking to Stan, fatass. Catch the hell up.”

Cartman pinches the end of his cigar between huge, grubby fingers. His knuckles are turning white, and the expression on his face is deadly. He grinds out, “Kahl, I thought we agreed you wouldn’t call me that anymore.”

Kyle has the grace to look ashamed. Well, not really. Just kind of annoyed, if I squint. But he says, “Sorry, old habit,” and dashes out the end of his cigarette on the fake wood finish of Lola’s porch railing. I doubt her parents are going to appreciate the new ash decoration when they get home, but whatever. That bitch isn’t my problem.

He turns to walk into the kitchen, hand catching on the screen door handle. The screen door I’m standing right behind.

His eyes meet mine.

“Stan.”

“Oh, not talking to him, huh? Looks like you’re talking to him,” Cartman preens.

“Shut up, fatass,” Kyle and I snap in chorus. The look on Cartman’s face turns homicidal, but I don’t care about that right now.

Or really, ever. If he ever tries to lumber after me with a knife, I can outrun him. Hell, my grandmother could outrun him.

Kyle turns back towards me, lowering his eyes, “Can you move?”

My first compulsion is to do something, anything to defrost the ice from his voice. My nerves are jumping, shaking, electricity working its way through my body like some sort of muscle spasm.

Nausea turns my stomach, a slick sickness coating my throat. I haven’t puked on a crush since sixth grade, and I’m not about to start now. I force the bile down, watching Kyle’s face. Searching.

Man up, Craig said.

“We should talk.”

“I thought we covered this,” Kyle says without looking at me, “I need space-“

Through the screen I whisper, “Too bad.”

He wrenches the screen door open, glaring up at me, daring me to move. But only for a moment.

That’s not what I want. Where’s the anger he directed towards Cartman a few minutes ago? I watch him, hoping. Praying.

C’mon, Kyle. Show me some of that rage you keep bottled up inside.

“Move,” he mumbles.

“No.”

“Fucking move,” he demands, a bit louder now. Resolutely not meeting my eyes.

“No.”

“Stan.”

“Kyle,” I mimic right back. Cartman’s watching our back and forth like it’s some kind of spectator sport.

He doesn’t break. I wish he would. Instead he sighs, shoves his hands in his jeans pockets and mutters, “Fine. You want to talk? Let’s talk.”

There’s no enthusiasm in his voice.

That’s about when I realize I’m going to have to break him myself.

Hell, it might even be fun.

* * *

 

We end up in Lola’s room, which I’m ninety nine percent sure she would not appreciate if she knew. Kyle finds a stash of vodka in less than a minute of searching, and he settles down on Lola’s marigold patterned bedspread, cradling the bottle. He takes a long swig out of it before I can even open my mouth, and then offers it to me so I can do the same.

I take it.

Hey, Craig had a point. Liquid courage never hurts.

Plus, I have no earthly idea what to talk about. All my questions are jumbled inside me like some kind of distorted jigsaw puzzle.

Kyle’s watching me, careful, guarded. He looks like a stranger, but there’s something inside me that just wants to get close to him, and I can’t understand why. Why him? If the past really is meant to stay in the past, why did my feelings betray me and let me fall for Kyle, the current, messed up Kyle, while yearning for a guy who doesn’t even wholly exist any longer? I’m so confused.

Nervous, I lick at the scar on my lip, waiting for Kyle to say something; even though I’m the one who demanded we talk. God, I’m a wuss.

I force words out, “You- you broke up with Kenny.”

“So?” he snorts, takes another gulp of vodka, and refuses to look at me.

“Kenny blames me.”

Kyle doesn’t have anything to say to that. It’s a good thing I’ve had prior training with his awkward silences; otherwise I might be insulted or something. I watch him as he downs some more vodka, rubbing his thumb along the rest of his fingers in this weirdly soothing manner that’s obviously a nervous habit. I lick my scar again.

Grabbing the bottle from him, I drink of it, feeling it burn all the way down my throat. I’m a horrible light weight, at least compared to Craig and Clyde. Already my skin feels like its buzzing, humming, blood thrumming under my flesh.

“Let’s play a game,” I announce, completely out of the blue.

“What?”

“A game- a drinking game.”

Lola’s got a pack of cards on her bedside table; a pair of sex dice too, but I grimace and overlook those.

“What kind of drinking game?” Kyle asks, and he must be bordering on buzzed, because sober-Kyle is still steadfastly trying to avoid me.

“Up the river, down the river.”

“What’s that?”

I grin, “You’ll see.”

Kyle observes as I shuffle the cars, doing fancy bridges and tricks that my grandpa taught me before he turned into a grumpy, suicidal old man. When I’m done, I tell him, “Red or black.”

“Red or black what?”

“Pick a color,” I say patiently, “Red or black?”

“Oh. Um. Black.”

His card is the ace of hearts. Red. Okay, “Drink two.”

“Wait, what?”

“Two sips or for two seconds. Drink, now,” I smile wickedly and it must be a little contagious, because Kyle half smirks and takes two long sips from the bottle.

I end up guessing wrong too and do the same. Next, “Higher or lower?”

Kyle gives me a blank look, so I explain, “Is the card I draw going to be higher or lower than the ace? Aces are high.”

“Lower, duh.”

It is- a seven of clubs. Out loud I murmur, “That means you give four- if there were other people you could choose who to give it to or break it up, but since it’s just me…”

I take the bottle and take four sips.

Then four more when I get mine wrong.

Next, “In between or outside?”

“You mean the card’s going to be in between the ace and the seven or outside of it?”

“You’re catching on.”

“In between.”

He’s wrong.

“Take six.”

“Okay, dude, this game is lethal.”

“I know,” I brush hair out of my eyes, smiling wider than I have in a long time, and do my cards. I get it right, and announce to Kyle gleefully, “Take six more.”

“You suck. Hard.”

I kind of want to make a dirty joke, but don’t want to ruin this new rapport I’ve got going with him, even if it’s just bonding over vodka.

“Now pick a suit.”

“Spades.”

“Wrong. Take eight.”

He groans, only brightening when I discover I have to take eight too. Then he watches me lay out nine cards, four parallel to each other, and one at the end.

“Okay, so this pile is give, and this is take. This last card is finish the bottle.”

“You cannot be serious.”

I blink, “And yet I am.”

I turn over the first card, which is an ace. It means Kyle can give two, so I gracefully take two sips. The next card from the take pile is also an ace, which means he has to take two. And so on and so on. By the last card, I can tell that Kyle’s past buzzed and moving on to wasted.

Which is kind of why I feel for him when the last card turns out to be the final ace. The bottle’s nearly empty, but there’s a good three shots or so left. Enough to put him well over the edge.

He stares at it, calculating how screwed he’s going to be if he finishes it off. Then he does it anyway, wincing at the taste.

“Next time we play this game, let’s not do it with vodka,” he groans afterwards.

“Deal.”

I don’t say that I’d be shocked if Kyle decides to spend time with me again.

We sit in comfortable silence for a minute or two. I’ve missed being able to do this.

“You know,” he starts, and his voice is shaky, “I kind of lied.”

I turn towards him, his face cast in shadows. The only light in the room is Lola’s beside lamp, and while it seemed like enough before, it feels almost too intimate now, “About what?”

“When I said I’d never thought of you like that.”

“Like…?”

“Like, y’know. _That_.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” he takes a trembling breath, “The truth is…I don’t know. Before we fought, you were- and I was- and sometimes, yeah, I thought maybe- but it was only fleeting.”

“Oh,” I repeat, feeling this warmth flooding through my chest, “So then…why lie?”      

“Because- Stan, you can’t believe this will ever work. We’re a mess. You’re angry and overly sensitive to practically everything, half the time I’m so numb and frickin’ paralyzed by how scared I am of life…I mean, it’s not like we put the fun in dysfunction, man.”

“Relationships are supposed to be messy, Kyle.”

“Not this messy. Not this fucked up. You don’t even know what I’m like now, what I’m really like.”

“So show me! Kyle, please,” my voice is low, a whisper in the night.

His gaze is steely and distant, “The only thing we’re going to end up doing is killing each other.”

“I’d be okay with that,” I reply quietly, “As long as I die with you.”

“Okay, see, that- that’s the emo shit I’m talking about. You can’t be all intense like that, all the time. It’s not healthy.”

“Because hiding the way you really feel is,” I drawl back, voice dripping with sarcasm.

He manages to look appropriately chastened, at least, falling quiet for a moment.

Then I ask, “ You said you felt…something for me when we were fourteen. What about now, Kyle?”

Kyle sighs, carding a hand through his curls, “Look, I don’t know if you ever noticed, but back in grade school- hell, I idolized you.”

I can’t help the proud glow that tinges my cheeks. I mean, c’mon, the guy I love apparently idolized me.

“After we fought, I thought you were- I don’t know, changing. Becoming someone who didn’t- who didn’t need me. I wanted to make up with you more than anything, but then I thought maybe it was for the best. Maybe I had to learn to stand on my own two feet, y’know?”

I nod, letting him continue, “Except it was so hard, Stan. Living without you has been like living- fuck, like living without a limb. I started having dreams about you sophomore year…dreams that made me reevaluate everything I knew about myself.”

I raise an eyebrow, “What kind of dreams?”

His cheeks color and he looks away, “You know. Those kind.”

“Oh.”

"I thought if I talked to you, they’d go away, but you were so…angry and different, and I was terrified that you hated me. I guess I’m not as brave as I like to think.”

Well, that’s a feeling I can understand completely.

“After that it felt like…I don’t know, like I was hollowing myself out. I started dating Bebe, I started smoking, I started drinking with Kenny and I don’t know. It felt like maybe if I ruined myself a little bit, if I made myself a little bit edgier, maybe you’d look at me again. That didn’t work; all I ended up doing is wrecking myself.”

That makes me do a double take, “Kyle, no, that’s not-.”

“I’m fucked up, Stan. I don’t know where, and I don’t know when, but somewhere in the past four years, I lost myself. I had all these dreams, and now it feels like I don’t know why I wanted them in the first place. I’m a walking zombie. You can’t want someone like me, because I’m not even a person anymore.”

Right. And I’m the angsty-emo one.

“…and, it’s your fault.”

“Excuse me?”

Kyle sullenly looks anywhere but at me.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “I think you just said you being screwed up is _my_ fault.”

Which can’t be true, because obviously it’s the complete opposite. Me being screwed up is _his_ fault.

“Maybe, once, you used to be my world,” Kyle mumbles, “But now I’m alone, and like this, and…Fuck, I don’t know.”

“You really aren’t as nice as everyone thinks you are. Not if you can blame all that on me.”

“Duh,” Kyle’s laugh is biting, caustic, “I’m not the one worth idolizing, Stan. You are. But I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I’ll settle for being imperfect, as long as I can have the perfect life,” he whispers.

“Yeah? How’s that working out for you?” I snarl back, grabbing hold of his upper arms, “This martyr shit gets old quick, Ky. You don’t have to be alone. I can help you. Fucked in the head or not, I want to be with you. I’ve told you again and again.”

“How do I know?” Kyle pleads with me, desperation in his eyes, “How do I know that if we go through with this, I won’t lose you all over again?”

"You don’t. You can’t, Kyle,” I bite my lip, because I don’t know what to think or feel. I want to hug him and I want to punch him for being so goddamned smug and intellectual about this, this thing that can’t be rationalized, “No one can predict the future.”

“Then it’s not worth it,” he says dismissively, “It can’t be worth all that pain.”

“You’re going to let _fear_ stop you from doing what you want?” I ask, incredulous. It’s just one more example of the Kyle I know being overlapped, overtaken by the fake Kyle, the one who’s more like some kind of Stepford Boy than a real person. Who always takes the easy way out, because that’s how no one gets hurt.

He looks at me, his gaze hard and true, “Kissing you…that one time, kissing you tasted like…disaster. Like everything was going to collapse.”

“It’s just a feeling,” I reply reasonably.

“Wars have been fought over a single feeling,” he rebukes me.

I don’t know why that’s my breaking point. Maybe it’s the look in his eyes, so completely hopeless that I want only to make it go away. Maybe it’s the twist of his lips, almost smiling, like something about this is funny, when it’s so- so not.

I lower my mouth to his, not expecting anything more than to be kissing a statue. Lifeless. A shallow parody of the Kyle I’m looking for.

He blows my expectations out of the water. His kisses are hungry. Like maybe he’s trying to reach something inside me that he doesn’t even think exists.

And then- of course, because my life is fucked, he pulls back.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing,” he mutters.

Then he leaves.

It’s like the only view I ever see of Kyle anymore is his back.


	25. I’ll Silence You With Sex And Drugs And Education

I stumble down the stairs in Lola’s house, my surroundings fuzzy and unstable.

That game of up the river, down the river might have been harsher to me than I’d initially thought. My mind can’t figure out whether we’re still in the blissed out, hazy-but-cheerful stage of drunkenness or the miserable-sobbing-like-a-pussy-and-unable-to-focus-on-shit stage. I know I’m on the border; I definitely had some kind of brown out coming down the stairs. The first few steps are clear, then next thing I know; I’m in the kitchen.

Lola’s living room is pounding, reverberating with music and teenagers. They’re smoky shadows painted across the darkness as they twist and grind into each other. The dancers are searching for a way to get closer without ever having to care about their partner, and I feel like I hold the secret of ‘why’ in the palm of my hand.

It sucks donkey balls having to care about someone. Like, man, you have no idea.

Unrequited love; that shit can fuck you up big time.

Getting repeatedly rejected by someone when you know they used to love you might even be worse than having them never love you at all. Because now I feel like maybe Kyle saw something in me and then realized…it isn’t worth it. I’m not fucking worth it.

Ha. Emo shit. Ha, ha.

I think I’d like to pull a knife from the drawer and use it to either slit my wrists or go on some psychopathic killing spree. I just need a little blood to let out all that pent up aggression; dude, it’s why god invented first person shooter games.

I’m distracted from this macabre line of thought when I notice the figures in the living room are underscored by colors; blue, green, red. The whole fucking rainbow. What was that acronym again?

Damn. I’m pretty sure experiencing musical synesthesia is a sure sign of being blasted.

Cool air frets at my back and it’s only now I notice I’m pressed up against the screen door. Outside.

I’ve gotta get out of this place, clear my head. I stumble out onto the snow covered deck, clutching the railing and glaring balefully up at the too bright stars, silver pin pricks against the night sky. It’s devastatingly clear; I feel like maybe, for a second, I could be the only person left in the entire world. The music inside is a dull throb; overridden by the sharp crackle of a few dead tree leaves as the wind rakes through them and the sweet kiss of snow falling gently to the ground.

It’s amazingly serene; right up until a belch shakes the serenity away.

I spin on my heel, nearly slipping on the iced over porch, “Cartman?”

The fat fuck raises an eyebrow, his lips twisting into a sardonic grin as he looks up at me from a plastic lawn chair, “Don’t act so surprised, Raven.”

“I-“ I falter, “I didn’t know you were out here.”

“You left me out here.”

“But that was like, an hour ago! You’ve been sitting here all this time?”

Cartman crosses his arms and keeps the grin pasted on.

“I guess you can’t feel the cold with all that blubber.”

“I have beer,” Cartman tilts his head to the side, completely ignoring my half-hearted insult, “Want to talk about whatever’s got your panties in a twist?”

“With you?”

“No, with the Christmas critters. Fuck, Raven, keep up.”

“I’m not having some- heart to heart with _you_.”

He rolled his eyes heavenward, “You’re hurting my feelings. Really, just crushing them.”

I decide going back inside is a viable option now.

“Wait a second,” Cartman stops me in my tracks, “You don’t want to spill? Fine. I want to talk to you.”

“How about not?”

“If you make me get up, I’m going to be mad. You won’t like me when I’m mad, Raven.”

It must be the booze that compels me to stay where I am, clutching the railing and wondering if the stars are really spinning, or if that’s just me.

I wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t seem to be in the mood. He pours half his beer into a used cup; probably Kyle’s old one, and offers it to me. It’s the first semi-polite thing Cartman’s done for me in years. I wonder if he’s poisoned the cup or something. I take a long sip. He does the same. It’s a routine that goes on for about five minutes, minimum, before he decides to break the silence.

“Look-“ he pauses, like he’s assembling what few thoughts rattle around inside his head.

“Look,” he says again, “I don’t like you.”

“Yeah, well. Feeling’s mutual, Gargantua.”

“Aye! Name calling is uncalled for, you goddamned hippie. You know perfectly well that I’m big boned.”

“You’re definitely a bonehead,” I agree, leaning back against my elbows and hoping I don’t put on another demonstration of my athletic grace by falling flat on my ass. My feet struggle to keep a grip on the icy wooden surface of the porch.

“-the point here,” he interrupts, glancing sharply away to keep himself from spewing an onslaught of insults that will end this conversation right here and now, “is that I wish your mother had slipped and fallen in a puddle of AIDs rather than conceived you.”

…I don’t even know what to say to that. Seriously, why am I standing here, taking this abuse?

“Gee, thanks.”

Probably because I’m drunk.

“But for some _unfathomable_ reason, my pet Jew likes you.”

“Does Kyle know you refer to him as a pet?” I slant my head to the side, trying to imagine Kyle with puppy dog ears and a tail.

“Like I care,” Cartman snorts.

“I can’t believe I’m listening to this,” I murmur, voicing the thought that’s been bouncing back and forth around my brain. The alcohol’s made me all shaky and uncertain, and incredibly disinclined to move, “What is this even about? Are you gay for Kyle?”

“Fuck that. I’m not gay!” Cartman looks offended that I’d even accuse him of it.

“Then why were you fighting in the cafeteria?”

Cartman gives me this look that says I’m seriously lacking in intelligence, which okay, maybe that’s true.

“We were fighting because I wanted Kahl to dump Kenneh.”

“But…if you’re not gay, why?”

“He doesn’t like Kenneh. He likes you, fuckface,” Cartman scratches his head and reclines back in the patio chair, “Search me why anyone would want a hippie as a butt buddy, but Jews are screwy in the head. Anyway, I don’t pretend to know the ways of teh ghey. Maybe you can explain it to me?”

“Wow, Cartman. That’s really big of you. Almost as big as your gigantic-“ I bite off the insult, only belatedly realizing he’s attempting to be nice in some twisted way.

He sees the curses die on my lips and sits back, satisfied with my submission, “If you repeat any of this, you won’t believe how hard I’ll shank you. Now, are you ready to quit your bitching and listen up?”

“Alright,” I mumble warily, eying him with a modicum of fear. He has way too much misplaced rage.

“Kahl likes you. No clue why. And you’re-“ Cartman shudders as though speaking these words physically pains him, “Good for him, or something. Better than that fag Kenneh, anyway.”

Again, I’m at a total loss for words.

“Okay.”

“I guess what I’m saying, Stan, is that I give you my blessing. Conditionally, of course.”

“Um.”

“Um? I have the benevolence to condone your tom-faggotry and you reply um?”

“Um,” I repeat.

“You’re such a ‘mo, Stan,” Cartman tells me with an air that indicates my very existence shames him, “Kahl has horrendous taste.”

In a lower voice, obviously not meant for me, he murmurs, “One of these days I’m going to have to rectify that.”

“Well, I-“

Disgusted, he spits, “Just man up already and take him on the stairwell or whatever.”

“Have my way with him? Jesus fatass, it’s not a harlequin romance!”

Cartman ignores me in favor of his beer. An almost comfortable silence takes over again, until he says, “Stan?”

“What?”

“Don’t take my best friend from me.”

I’m tempted to snap, why should I? After all, he stole my best friend away.

Except it wasn’t Cartman’s fault. It was mine, for letting Kyle go.

“I won’t,” I promise, even if I’m not sure it’s a promise I can keep.

“You know what it’s like, being best friends with him.”

Intoxicating. Even if I was the popular one back in grade school, Kyle was the one who was always charging ahead without thinking. He was the one who had all the best ideas, all the greatest jokes, and he was so fucking smart that he made me almost think learning was cool.

Yeah, fuck yeah. I know what it’s like to be best friends with Kyle Broflovski.

I’m not used to seeing Cartman be vulnerable this way, so I mutter, “It doesn’t matter. Kyle doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

“Not when you’re acting like a total pusseh, he doesn’t. Why don’t you work on rediscovering your balls, dude?”

Seriously. I don’t know why I even bother.

“I’ll…try, I guess.”

“Oh, and Stan?”

“What?”

“If you fuck up my relationship with Kahl in any way, shape, or form, I will storm your house like its Poland and I’m Hitler himfuckingself.”

I blink, “I swear I won’t hurt Kyle, if that’s what you’re saying.”

That’s almost kind of…sweet. Maybe Cartman’s taking time off from being an asshole for an entire point two seconds.

“Hurt Kahl? I don’t care if you _hurt_ the Jew. As long as he comes crawling back to me on his hands and knees, hurt him as much as you like,” Cartman gives me this really evil smile.

I take back the sweet comment.

It’s definitely time to go back inside.

I wave Cartman a single fingered salute goodbye and walk back into the warm embrace of Lola’s house. A very drunk freshman refills my beer at the keg, giggling as two seniors attempt to convince her to funnel. I navigate past them and out into the smoky mystery of the living room. Craig and Clyde are making out on the stairs; I only see them because they both pause when I emerge from the light of the kitchen to give me shit-eating about-to-get-sex grins. God. My friends are such idiots.

I wonder where Kyle went, and like some sort of invisible genie heard my question, he materializes from the crowd. He’s not alone. I’ve seen this dance before, the one’s he’s doing where he bumps and grinds against a blonde with frizzy, unkempt hair.

You would think Kyle had learned his lesson, but apparently not even threat of castration was enough to keep him away from Bebe Stevens.

I watch them dance, in close, teasingly far. Their lips part, their pupils blown wide. They’re about to fuck, right in the middle of Lola’s living room. Kyle’s got that gonna-get-some expression, that intense look guys always get when we know our dick’s about to end up somewhere nice.

Great. I don’t want to see any more of this. My heart feels raw, like someone’s planning on cutting it up and using it for sushi. Fuck.

Just as I’m about to leave, Kyle’s eyes meet mine. It’s instantaneous. For a single moment we’re back in Lola’s room, and he’s trying to devour me from the inside out. Heat pools south of my navel.

I can see from the fire in Kyle’s eyes he feels the same way.

Only he decides to make out with Bebe instead of me. He lowers his lips to hers so painstakingly slow that I know he’s putting on a show, just so that I see it. He’s showing me that this is what he’s supposed to do, that being with anyone other than me is better.

I can’t take it anymore. Just…fuck him.


	26. What A Way To Say Goodbye

The party’s kicking into high gear as I make my way towards the door. I just want to go home and lie in my bed and wallow in my misery.

Is that too much to ask?

Christmas is around the corner, and after that I’ve got less than a year of school. I can run away to some institute of higher learning and pretend I never even heard of Kyle Broflovski. But right now, this minute, I can’t take life mimicking my dad’s bad country music albums any longer.

Life’s got other plans for me, I guess. The second my hand touches the doorknob, a voice whispers warm and soft near my ear, “Henrietta’s really fucking pissed at you.”

“Henrietta can lick my balls.”

“I still find it disturbing that you ever let her anywhere _near_ your balls. You make despicable selections when it comes to women.”

“And men,” I turn to face my aggressor, “What do you want, Derek?”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Tche, yeah,” I scoff.

“It’s hot. All that playing hard to get,” he reaches for my shoulder, pulling me in. My drunken feet don’t listen when I tell them very firmly not to stumble forward.

“Gross, dude,” I shove his hand off of me. I don’t like him being so close, where all I can smell and breathe is him.

Not when only a short time before the only thing in my airspace was Kyle.

Derek laughs, deep and wild, “Feisty tonight?”

“Aren’t you just the messenger?” I growl, referring to his Henrietta comment.

He tilts his head to the side and grins, shoving his hands deep in the pockets of his black parachute pants, “Hey, when the Queen Bitch tells me to express her irritation to the sexiest guy in the room, I listen.”

God, can he just _not_ be such a cocky asshole right now?

“Such an obedient dog.”

“Woof, woof.”

I don’t like his proximity. I don’t like his hair or his eyes or his frickin’ _eyeliner_. He’s dangerous, and I’m wasted, and all I want in the whole wide world is the safety of my bed. I want to be alone and hell, maybe I’ll watch horror movies and write emo poetry, but that’ll be fine. That’ll put me far from the realm of mistakes and kisses and groping some guy I don’t even care about.

Let it never be said my friends don’t pull through in a pinch.

“Marsh!” I glance over Derek’s head to see Craig and Clyde standing side by side, expectant.

“Is this homo bothering you?” Craig knocks his fist into the doorframe for emphasis. My knight in shining…dripping…alcohol. Bleurgh, he smells like he’s been concocting his own distilled moonshine in the bathtub. Did Clyde dump the jungle juice over his head?

“Dude, your odor is like, rank,” I mutter.

“Stop undermining my authority, Marsh,” Craig snaps, sounding almost exactly like Cartman.

“Yeah, dude. We’re trying to save you from getting molest…molested…I mean, molestered.” Clyde inputs, tottering on his feet. He’s so gone I don’t even know how he’s standing. Then I see Craig’s other arm, slung around his back.

How sweet. Gag me.

“Come hunt me down when you’re alone,” Derek says with a wink, his breath hot on my face. He ducks under Craig’s outstretched arm and dissolves into the crowd before I can tell him there’s a fat chance of that happening.

I look at Craig and Clyde, waiting. When neither of them starts talking, I prompt, “As eager as you both are to defend my virtue, I’m assuming you hunted me down for a reason.”

“You’re not allowed to leave the party,” Craig crosses his arms, moving his weight from the doorframe to his feet so that I can see he’s also standing a little unsteady, “Do you know what a pain in the ass it was to get you here?”

“I’m aware.”

“Dude,” Clyde tries to elbow him in the gut, but hits his chin instead, “That’s not what we’re here about…I think.”

“You think?”

“No, I know. Wait, just gimme a second, so I can remember.”

“You’re both flagged.”

“No! Marsh, man, don’t do that to us. I need more beer. I need it!” Clyde begs unconvincingly, curling his fingers around the front of my shirt.

Craig sighs and extricates the fabric from his boyfriend’s grasp and then says, “Oh yeah, I forgot. Some kid’s looking for you. I think he’s in the den.”

“Kid?” I echo.

Craig shrugs, “I don’t know who he is. Black hair, blue eyes. Looks a little like you, actually.”

His eyes light up, “Marsh, do you have a little brother you never told us about?”

“No.”

“Oh,” he shrugs, “Well, fuck you, I’m thirsty. Clyde, whaddyou say we go find that funnel?”

Clyde cheers and they wander away. My friends; the idiots.

“Thanks for the defense,” I call after them, but I doubt they hear it over the music and their own drunken stupors.

I shake my head. Right, so, a kid. A kid who looks like me?

Even before I step foot in the den, I know who’s waiting.

Ike Broflovski is sitting primly on a paisley print love seat, watching a couple across from him on the shit colored couch writhe as their tongues intertwine. He seems fascinated by the process. His companion; not so much. The person sitting next to Ike is talking in low, amiable tones about something right up until I enter the room.

Then he just glares.

I watch Georgie get up in silence. He bids Ike goodbye. Then he rams me with his shoulder on the way back into the living room.

“Don’t mind him,” Ike says as I rub my arm. That’s going to bruise.

“I wasn’t going to. He’s got a boner for this guy I know, or something,” I’m so not comfortable telling Ike that Georgie’s got a boner for a guy _I’ve_ boned.

“He’s not gay,” Ike replies quickly, “He just views Derek as a big brother, and he’s worried you’ll hurt him.”

“Um. Okay,” I doubt Derek’s able to be hurt, but I’m not going to say that. I’m more concerned with the obvious, “How do you know my business, kid?”

Ike grins, toothy and open, “Georgie’s one of my best friends. It’s not my fault your _business_ is like a telenovela.”

I groan and sit beside him, “Does Kyle know?”

The kid snorts, “No fucking way. Kyle doesn’t see a thing unless you spell it out for him. And sorry, Stan. I’m not spelling out your sexual exploits to my big brother.”

“Thank god for small favors, then.”

Ike just smiles serenely, intently observing the couple on the couch. I don’t blame him. There’s nothing else to look at. The wallpaper in here is hideous, and the lone TV has its glass screen smashed in. Lola’s going to have her hands full explaining that one to her parents.

“So, uh,” I breech the silence, “Long time no see.”

“Whose fault is that?” Ike counters.

Burn. I wince and murmur, “Aren’t you a little young to be at this party?”

“I’m Georgie’s designated driver.”

Wow. I’d forgotten the kid was in high school now. Fucking geniuses suck.

“You can drive? You’re like, twelve!”

“I rode my bike here, doofus.”

Alright. That’s an acceptable answer. I stare Ike down, afraid to ask why he, uh, summoned me.

Lucky me, he broaches the subject first, “You know I want to talk about Kyle.”

Of course he does. It only makes sense, seeing as Kyle is the last thing I want to talk about. This is more painful than my agonizingly long shifts at Harbucks, listening to Christophe denounce God and Country.

“Ike, I don’t know if-

“Shut up and listen, Stan.”

I oblige. He may not be Sheila Broflovski’s real child, but he’s definitely got her scary voice down pat.

“You and Kyle need to get your shit together.”

I don’t know why everyone’s telling me this tonight. Don’t they know that I’ve been attempting exactly that for the past month?

“You have a way of fucking with his head, and you need to cease and desist. First of all, you know that in any alternate reality, this my-brother-being-popular-thing would not happen. Kyle is not popular. I’ll give him basketball, and I’ll give him intelligence, but if God is fair and just, which I’ve been raised to believe he is- Kyle would never be popular. It’s your fault. When you fell from grace he had to like, karmically fill your spot. Second, I’m sick of Bebe. I saw them doing the bump-and-grind out on the dance floor. I know you did too.”

“Guilty as charged,” I grit out, because I can picture it behind my eyelids, singeing my brain.

“So that needs to be stopped, pronto. Third, Kyle needs you, dude,” Ike’s been ticking the points off his fingers like he’s reciting a school report.

“You want me to fix things with Kyle because you think he needs to dump his girlfriend and be unpopular.”

“I don’t want you to _fix_ things with Kyle. I want you to bang his brains out, and that should fix him up just right.”

“Ike!”

“Sweet Moses, you sound like my mom. I’ll wash my mouth out with soap later, Stan.”

There are no words for my state of shock. First Cartman, and now Ike. I had no idea everyone was so interested in what I should or shouldn’t do with my dick.

“Look, this isn’t just about fixing him. It’s about fixing you, too. You’re absolutely miserable; everyone can tell. Kyle is too. You guys have this like…Wuthering Heights love affair going, for no fucking reason at all. Seriously, there is no reason you shouldn’t be together.”

“I realize that,” I say quietly, ashamed that I’m getting this lecture from someone so much younger, and kind of embarrassed that my personal life just got compared to a Spanish soap opera and a tragic romance within the space of five minutes, “Kyle doesn’t.”

“Well, make him, goddamnit! All I know is; my brother hasn’t been the same without you.”

“That’s sweet, but-“

“ _I_ haven’t been the same without you.”

“Ike-“

“No, you know what? I’ve wanted to tell you this for a long time. Kyle wasn’t the only person you abandoned when you had your goth fit, okay? I know in the both of your heads, everything revolves around Stan and Kyle twenty four seven, but you kind of had an impact on other peoples’ lives too. You were like my second big brother. You were supposed to teach me to shave because Kyle barely started growing armpit hair ‘til last year, much less a beard. You were supposed to talk me through my first date when Kyle got all socially awkward and wouldn’t speak to me about girls.”

“I-“ Wow. Kid really knows how to bring on the guilt. I thought I was over feeling horrible about what happened before high school, but obviously the knife can still twist.

Ike’s eyes blaze in a familiar way, even if he and Kyle aren’t blood brothers, “I had to go to Bebe for advice, Stan. Bebe.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. So- so,” he takes a deep breath, “What I’m saying is, my brother needs you, sure. But…whether you decide to prostrate yourself in front of him or not, just don’t forget about the rest of the world. I’m not the only person you fucked over like that, Stan. Wendy, Kenny- hell, even Cartman.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Maybe not Cartman,” he tacks on brusquely.

“I’m sorry, Ike.”

“Yeah, you should be,” he makes a derisive noise, “Maybe next time you have conniptions, you won’t strand the rest of us by the wayside, eh?”

I want to say that I was stranded too. Instead I do the mature thing and give him a silly grin and ruffle his hair, just like a big brother.

Really, I’m just covering for the fact that I don’t think I can fit this many heart to hearts in one night without exploding.

* * *

 

I decide to stay at the party after all. Ike’s words hit me hard, and while I’m not quite ready to fight for Kyle and get shot down a second time in one night, I figure I should at least explain myself to Derek. Even if I don’t believe he has real feelings, Georgie obviously does, and I’ve hurt enough people to last a lifetime.

It must be near two in the morning, but in my search to find the goth boy, I get dragged into a game of flip cup with Mandy, Heidi, and Lola. All the alcohol seemed to have induced the latter into forgiving me about the whole homecoming thing. I doubt she’ll remember all that forgiveness in the morning, but whatever.

Then, when I finally escape with a renewed buzz, Wendy and Token pull me in for some theological debate. Or maybe it was political. My brain got a little fuzzy at that point, possibly because of the vodka shots we took during the course of it. And I had been getting so sober before that, too.

Anyway, when I finally reach the front door, ducking Craig’s not-so-keen lookout for my escape, I’m greeted by gusts of cold air. The wind outside is picking up, and the stars are clouded over, threatening snow.

Just great. Maybe I’ll get snowed in with all these people.

The person I find smoking on the curb isn’t Derek.

“Kenny,” I say before I can think about it, because I haven’t really seen much of him since he and Kyle broke it off.

He glances up at me, takes a puff of the cigarette, and then glares at the curb.

Maybe the party gods are urging me to get all my apologies in, or maybe I’m just so tipsy that I really need to sit down, but I plop down on the sidewalk beside him and announce, “You don’t smoke.”

“No,” Kenny agrees, taking another long drag on the cigarette, “Just needed something.”

I need something. Anything. I snatch the cigarette from between his fingers and try it out, my second time ever. I end up hacking up a lung.

Kenny’s laughter echoes up and down the street, “Damn, Stan. I forgot what a complete moron you could be.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“Did you want to talk about something?” his tone turns serious. The wind ruffles through his blond hair, and I notice his cheeks are red with the cold. He’s really kind of good looking, when he’s not acting like a prick.

There are so many things I could talk to him about. Like why he decided I was the enemy when he’d been the only person other than Craig and Clyde who still talked to me for so many years. Like why he’d thought I’d steal Kyle away.

Except I know the answers. Because I was the enemy. Because I did steal Kyle away.

“Nope. I’m good,” I say, “Are you okay?”

My words are loaded. He knows I mean about everything. About Kyle, about me, and even about himself. He gives me this look that speaks volumes.

“Aw, fuck,” Kenny rakes a hand through his messy hair and throws me the most cocksure grin I’ve ever seen, “I’ll be fine.”

It’s not a heart to heart, but in some ways, it’s better.

* * *

 

I find Derek at the center of the party, where Henrietta is doing some kind of cryptic, gothic dance that I don’t even pretend to understand. She’s swaying her hips and running her hands through the air like its water and she’s doing the breaststroke, her head thrown back in the some kind of orgasmic bliss.

I have no idea what I used to see in her.

Bebe and Kyle are nowhere in sight, but that’s for the best, I think. I don’t know if the sight of them is going to send me into a murderous rage or a nervous breakdown, but either way not seeing them sounds like the best alternative.

I grab hold of Derek’s arm. He spins, on the defensive right up until he realizes it’s me. When it sinks in, his whole body just…relaxes. My gut wrenches. I’m such a terrible person. How did I not realize that maybe this wasn’t all a game to him?

“I need to talk to you,” I mouth, pointing in the direction of the stairs. There’s no way I’ll be able to be heard here, with the blaring music. Cartman’s still outside, I’d bet, and Ike’s taken up residency with the eel-like couple in the den. Kenny’s outside, and the kitchen’s full of drunks. Really, upstairs is just the best option.

Derek follows me willingly, obviously thinking I’ve changed my mind about our extracurricular fun. We make it about halfway up the stairs before we bump into the one person I’d hoped to avoid.

Before I can stop myself, I ask bitingly, “Where’s Bebe?”

“Puking,” Kyle mutters, giving me a strange look.

“Bad luck for you,” I try to edge my way past him, Derek in tow. He doesn’t move an inch.

“Um,” I gesture at the space, “I’m kind of trying to get by.”

“Dude,” Kyle grabs hold of my arm so hard that his fingers must be imprinting bruises as he speaks, “I thought you _weren’t_ all goth and shit.”

“I’m not- not really,” I amend, because okay, I have my moments.

“Then why are you hanging out with Derek Whatshisface?”

Gee, there’s the Kyle I know. Rude and demanding. How I’ve missed him.

Forgetting Derek’s standing right behind me- hell, he probably can’t hear a thing anyway, I roll my eyes, and groan, “You don’t even know his name? God, Kyle, we’ve only been in the same school as him for like, ever.”

“He’s a prick,” Kyle says firmly, his eyes darting towards Derek and his touch burning through my forearm even after he loosens his grip.

“So? Okay, a couple points here. One, you don’t dictate who my friends are. Two, I seem to recall you wanting nothing to do with me at all.”

Kyle waves off the second accusation and spits in response to the first, “The way he’s looking at you isn’t friendly, man.”

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if I’m more surprised at his unbridled hatred towards Derek, whom he barely knew existed until a few seconds ago, or if I’m shocked that he cares at all. He looks like he’s feeling the same way.

His face goes through a myriad of expressions, like maybe he just caught himself acting jealous, and he hastily tacks on, “I mean- look, I’m just trying to warn you.”

Against my better judgment, I’m amused. I glance back at Derek, who licks his lips and grins.

“Warn me? How exactly do you think Derek’s looking at me?”

“I don’t know, Stan-“ he’s angry, and his voice is near breaking when he helplessly concludes, “Like- like he wants to get in your pants.”

Weak. So fucking weak.

I snort, “Too fucking late for that warning.”

“I- what was that?” Kyle gestures towards the speakers across the room, which are banging out some raucous rap song, “It just got really loud in here.”

Sighing, I shake my head, “Never mind. It’s not like it was important.”

“Stan, don’t-“

I make my way past him, shoving him so that he has to press flat against the stairwell wall. Derek follows obediently. He really is well trained. You’ve got to give Henrietta props for that.

I’m kind of impressed with how this situation has turned around though. I can feel Kyle’s eyes burning holes in my back as I disappear up the stairs. This wasn’t what I expected when I planned to apologize to Derek. I guess, maybe I thought Kyle might see, but I didn’t think he’d care. I wasn’t thinking he’d get jealous.

Not exactly.

I won’t lie and say I’m not thankful for it.

Kyle follows us up the stairs, relentless as always. as he _used_ to be. This isn’t the kid who worries that we’re going to wreck each other anymore. Somehow, jealousy has transformed him into the old Kyle, the one that I recognize.

The one I know how to handle. Or not.

He’s hot on Derek’s heels when we arrive in Lola’s room again. I wasn’t sure the place would be empty, but it looks like most partygoers aren’t at the hook-up-with-everybody-everywhere stage yet.

It’s funny, because I’m well past that point.

Eh, I’m a lightweight.

“So,” I begin, looking only at Derek. Then I glance up at Kyle, like I’d forgotten he was in the room, “Do you mind?”

Firmly, Kyle retorts, “I’m _not_ leaving you alone in here so he can imagine you naked, dude.”

Derek’s obviously sick of being referred to like he isn’t around. He also must have heard my comment on the stairs, because he says, “I don’t think you understand, Broflovski. I don’t have to imagine. I’ve already seen it.”

"You- what?” Derek nods with a smirk and Kyle’s glancing at me as open and vulnerable as he was the last time we were in Lola’s room.

“What? No, _Stan_ ,” his voice finally cracks as he pleads with me to tell him otherwise for reasons I don’t even understand.

This sucks. My voice is gruff when I demand, “Do you want me to lie to you?”

“But-“ he looks Derek up and down, every bit of his jock demeanor railing against the man-boy in grunged out black and shouts, “-why would that even be something you’d want to do?”

“You are such a douchebag!” Derek exclaims.

“I am? You fucking- defiled my friend!”

“Friend? Oh, that’s rich,” the goth boy snorts, “The only person at this party who doesn’t know you want to bone him is Bebe Stevens! You’re just jealous I got there first.”

Yeah, being talked about like you’re not in the room does bite. I understand why Derek was getting pissy.

“Hey, hi,” I wave my hands in the air, “Hello? Still here, guys.”

“Dude, keep quiet,” Kyle yells at me.

“Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you,” Derek drawls at the exact same time, glaring daggers at Kyle and thrusting his hips for emphasis. Kyle’s face turns slightly green.

“Did you really have sex with this jerk?” Kyle asks, not really looking at me.

“Several times,” Derek answers for me, “He _begged_ me for it.”

I most certainly did not.

I give Derek a glance that says I know three different ways I want to strangle him right now, but he ignores it.

Kyle’s hurting. It’s easy to see. But I don’t get it. He doesn’t _want_ me. He’s said it over and over again. Or he does want me, but he doesn’t want to risk whatever there is that’s left to risk. Either way. 

If I had any balls at all, this would be my moment. I’d somehow manage to show him that we can be more than reckless, stolen kisses and amiable silences. We’re more than all the bickering, fighting, all out wars we’ve had with each other. We’re more than stupid fucking mistakes we made with the resident goth homosexual in coffee shop bathrooms.

I stare down at my shoes in shame.

Even if Ike and Cartman, and heck, even Kenny all somehow encouraged me to go for this, I can’t do it. I’m not strong enough. I’m not brave enough. I can’t take Kyle rejecting me one more damn time. We’re not meant to be together; not if we can’t even meet each other’s eyes.

It’s not like I’m the only guilty party. Kyle’s staring stonily at the wall, like he’s revolted by my presence. Like he never had a gropefest with Bebe or Kenny.

I’m ready to leave the room, to run away one last time. Things do not go as planned.

Probably because Derek has a big mouth and loves nothing more than to use it.

“Broflovski, cowboy up,” he yells in disgust, “If you want to fuck Raven, and you think you can take him from me, just do it! Fucking A, man. I know we’re in high school, but this shit is sickening. Get together, don’t get together. It’s not the end of the world. In half a year, we’ll be going to college. You guys might not even fucking remember each other by the end of that shit.”

“Derek-“ I interject, because I’m not sure where this rant sprung from, but I’m pretty sure it has something to do with creating chaos and thus _isn’t_ going to end well.

He shakes his head and looks me straight in the eyes, “Raven- no, Stan. Contrary to all those shitty poems we like to write, things aren’t going to shatter into a million tiny pieces if shit doesn’t work out.”

“You…want me to get with Kyle?” I ask, flabbergasted.

“No- fuck, no. Did you miss the ‘if you think you can take him from me’ part?”

Yeah, I might have glossed over that in my mind.

I expect Kyle to tell Derek he’s a cunt muffin and he can shove it somewhere not particularly pleasant, but instead he gives me my final surprise of the night.

His voice is shaky but loud as he warbles out, “I- I could take him from you.”

I glance up sharply.

He didn’t just say that, did he?

He did. He actually fucking did.

Derek doesn’t even bother giving him a challenging look. He just sighs and says, “I know.”

I blurt, “Wait, I don’t get a choice here?”

“Shut the fuck up, Raven. You made your choice a while ago.”

Ouch. True, but ouch.

“I know,” I bite my lip, worrying over my scar, “I’m sorry.”

“Save your apologies for someone who needs them. Do I look like I’m going to go cut myself?” Derek barks. He kind of does. He looks open and vulnerable, and a lot younger than he is.

“I’m still sorry.”

“Yeah,” he hangs his head a little, even though he’s basically the one who just made this happen, “Well played, Broflovski.”

I watch Derek leave the room. Then I turn to Kyle, who’s still fiercely watching the walls, like they’re Magic Eye art.

“I don’t know what just happened, but I know something happened,” I tell him, “What the _fuck_ just happened?”

“I think…I think you just broke it off with your fuck buddy,” Kyle mumbles uncertainly.

“Oh…kay…uh…” I’m at a loss for words. This was so much easier when it was all raised voices and third party involvement, “What do we do now?”

The silence is so large that my voice echoes.


	27. Here Come The Angels

This is how it goes down.

I’m standing in Lola’s room, watching Kyle make up his mind on whether he’s going to leave for good. Oh, and I’m scared shitless. I don’t want to move. I’m not sure how to treat the situation.

Is Kyle a rabid dog I need to stare down, show who’s in charge? Or is he a helpless deer I should back away from? I don’t like feeling so vulnerable and uncertain, laid bare before this boy with his eyes that glow green, even in the darkness.

He takes a step forward and says, “I still don’t really know what I’m doing.”

Like I do? I laugh, but it’s harsh, grating. Kyle winces, but he doesn’t leave. I guess he’s not Bambi.

I watch, guarded, as he takes another step and then reaches out. My eyes follow his hands warily, until they land on my hips; then my gaze snaps right back up to his.

“Kyle?” I ask, but the word is strangled, nonsensical. He’s too close, much too close, and I know exactly how we play this game. He kisses me and bolts, runs like he’s the fucking Flash, a superhero with no visible uniform. I wonder, absently, what his power would be? The ability to run on command and break hearts in his wake?

When he leans forward to kiss me, my eyelids clench closed.

“Don’t do that,” Kyle snaps, causing one eye to open, ever so slightly.

“What?” I murmur.

“Don’t look at me like you’re bracing for impact. I promise this won’t hurt,” he smiles, but it’s as shaky as his voice.

When he does kiss me, it’s not even a kiss; just a whisper over my mouth.

I expect him to leave, not draw back and go, “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“What about-“ I protest, wanting to bring up all the reasons Kyle had told me this kind of thing wasn’t a Good Idea. I can’t believe I’m trying to sabotage myself.

He holds up his hand, pressing it against my chest. Then he reads my mind, and says, “That goth kid is right. Maybe everything collapsing wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe this is our last chance to get it right before college, Stan.”

I snort, “I’m pretty sure we have a few more months before graduation.”

He grins wryly, more certain of himself now, “Not what I mean, and you know it. I think- and this may just be the alcohol talking, but I think maybe it’s time to just…I don’t know, go with the flow?”

For some reason, I find his wording hilarious, “Go with the flow? Really, Kyle? Really?”

“Oh, just shut up,” he laughs, and I have only seconds to notice that he sounds completely exhilarated before he’s on me, devouring my mouth. The atmosphere in the room shifts, changes, as Kyle tugs at the hem of my shirt. Meanwhile I don’t even know where to put my hands or whether to move my lips. I don’t know whether this is just one more mistake in a long line of them. Then Kyle’s tongue darts out and licks against the scar beneath my lip, and his hips crash razor sharp and burning hot into mine.

The heat makes my decision for me.

I’m stripping off my tee shirt, pulling it up and over my head as Kyle’s fingers trail over my ribcage, tapping along my muscles like he’s playing a piano. The shirt flies into Lola’s vanity mirror, hanging on a skewed angle and knocking pots and tubes of makeup on the floor. I barely notice; I’m busy working open the buttons on Kyle’s shirt while his mouth moves over my neck. He fidgets, pulls the warmth of his body away as he moves lower down my collarbone, and I fist his collar and yank him back.

“You’re trying to take off my clothes,” Kyle mumbles against my skin, and I nod, my chin bumping against his ear as he sucks hard. He’s marking me, so that even if this is a onetime thing I’ll walk around for weeks with evidence of this, whatever this is. I groan and rip at the buttons on his shirt. I hear a tearing noise, but I don’t even care. His chest touches mine, burning hot.

He runs his fingers down to dig into the skin above my jeans and kisses me again, hard. Then he grins into my mouth, “I think I’m going to like you naked. Drunk and naked, just like god intended.”

“I doubt god had anything to do with this, dude,” I press into him hard, and he whimpers a little under the pressure. My hands find the wings of his shoulder blades, smoothing down his skin to the small of his back.

I capture his chin in my hands, all the frenetic energy bouncing around inside me calming, just for a second. When I look at him, jewel-eyes wide and luminous in the dark, so beyond wrecked and wanting, I can’t help it. I pull his mouth to mine, and I make the kiss so slow that I feel like everything between us that has shattered over the years mends, in an instant.

I want him, all of him, and I’m not sure how to contain the feeling.

For the first time in my life, I don’t have to.

* * *

 

“Holy shit,” I breathe, trying to catch my breath, “Did that just happen?”

“Yeah,” Kyle moans in this sexy, amazing way. He nuzzles into the crook of my arm.

"I don’t- I can’t- what _was_ that?”

“I believe those that aren’t as socially defunct as you are call it sex,” Kyle laughs throwing his head back so I can see the arch of his neck, pale skin marred by hickeys I gave him. At least, I think they’re all from me. I hope.

“Ha, ha, very funny,” I retort. He just pulls my body closer to his.

“So, does this mean you’re not scared of me anymore?”

Kyle reels back, eyes wide, “I was _never_ scared of you.”

"Then what have the past few months been about?” I ask, curious despite myself. I just want silence, to think, to sleep, to enjoy the feel of Kyle beside me. I’m not big on girly post-coital chit chat, but I have to know.

“I don’t know, dude. Losing you was like losing myself. I could never figure out who I want, or what, or what’s in the future. I’m only just starting to figure that kind of stuff out, I’m still so confused, and…I’m not ready to go through it again.”

“But Kyle, your entire sense of self can’t- it can’t depend on me. You do get that, right?”

“You make it sound so easy.”

And it’s not. I recognize that. Life constantly makes you reevaluate who you think you are. It throws you curveballs, barricades the paths you thought you could take, forces you places you’d never thought you’d see. None of it is easy.

I hug Kyle, because there’s no answer that will be good enough.

Still, I say, “We’ll figure it out.”

“Together?” Kyle asks hopefully, and I realize there’s no way to know. There’s no way to tell if Kyle’s seducing me because he’s a mischievous bastard, he wants his best friend back, or he honestly feels anything for me. There’s no test, no pop exam; just time.

Time to waste, time to heal, time to spend together trying to stop figuring out where everything went so horribly wrong and start trying to make things right for real.

And it doesn’t even matter.

He’s my best friend. We’ve been together since the sandbox, and we’ll be together 'til the grave.

I’ll make sure of it.

I sling my arm around his shoulder and look into his eyes, “Of course. What else are best friends for?”

“You still want to be best friends, even after everything I’ve put you through?”

“Duh.”

“What’s- what do you think will happen next. Are we dating? Are we…more than friends?”

I glance down out our bodies, our intertwined feet and the way I can feel every single part of him against me, “I’d say so. But Ky, it’s up to you. I’m not going to force you to be with me.”

I wonder if maybe those are the words he needs to hear most. He sighs, a smile spreading across his lips, “Let’s do it. Let’s try. Fuck all the reasons not to.”

It’s the bravest I’ve seen him in ages. It’s like looking at the old Kyle, the one who never cared what people thought of him, as long as he was doing what he wanted. His breathing steadies, slows, and he begins to drift away. I’m still wide awake, and I’m starting to get it. I’m beginning to understand that the way I remember people isn’t actually who they are. My memories are clear, picturesque, and perfect. People aren’t. People never can be.

Look at Kyle. Look at me. We’re flawed. He’s a narcissist. He doesn’t know which way is up half the time. And his moral compass is so fucking black and white that he forgets sometimes that real life comes in too many shades of gray; that’s one thing that’s never changed.

I forgave him for alienating me as a friend, and maybe that was stupid. I should have punched some sense into him the first chance I had, and reminded him that what he thought was right was actually messed up beyond belief.

But that’s where my imperfections come in. I’m a coward. I don’t like to think its true, but it is. When I had the chance to keep a hold on my super best friend, I let it go. Because I wanted him to realize the injustice of it on his own. Because I wanted to be selfish and victimized and finally get the attention I thought I was missing from him. And maybe another of my defects is that I took too long to let go of that idea, or maybe I didn’t take long enough. Maybe I should have let him suffer from that one mistake forever. I don’t know.

I’m confused and fucked up too.

I’m not going to say that’s why he and I fit together. Trying to form a relationship off the basis of two people’s failings isn’t exactly the recipe for success.

No, it’s the good things.

Like the fact that we missed each other, long after normal people would’ve just given up. It’s the fact that even after four years of minimal conversation, we were still terrified of each other’s opinions. It’s about how taking the easy route turned into the difficult one, and how at the end of the path we met up again.

Sometimes you have to let go to know if things are meant to be. At least, that’s what Hallmark always says.

I hate to admit that in this case it’s true.

Kyle and I were made for each other.

Always and forever.

Or at least the forever that exists right now; the pre-college promises of cold winter, lazy spring, and an endless summer. A single week in high school can seem like an eternity, and hell, maybe in a single week is all Kyle and I will make it.

We’ve still got a lot ahead of us. Dealing with all our issues might take our whole lives, or maybe we’ll throw in the towel and decide being together isn’t worth all the frustration. Maybe I’ll figure out what I want somewhere along the way, and maybe it won’t be Kyle, or maybe it will.

When that day comes, I’ll fight for it. Till then…

I’ve really got no clue what’s going to happen, and for once, I’m okay with that.

The only thing I know for sure is that right now, right here, with Kyle breathing steadily beside me, I’m the happiest I’ve been in years. Maybe, for some people, that wouldn’t be much. But I’ve got years of being Raven behind me, of drowning in own insecurities.

So yeah, for me, being happy is really what it’s all about.

Kyle presses his lips to my pectoral muscle, whispering, “Stan.”

It’s almost as good as living happily ever after.


End file.
